


Apotheosis

by Eithe



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Future Fic, Post-Trespasser
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-25
Updated: 2017-09-13
Packaged: 2018-05-03 06:45:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5280731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eithe/pseuds/Eithe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lavellan had plans. Being elevated to godhood was not one of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fragments

**Author's Note:**

> [corseque wrote a phenomenal meta about ritual, religion, and godhood](http://corseque.tumblr.com/post/133588973252) that interacted with some [thoughts I'd formerly had about Justinia and how divinity works in Thedas](http://teaandinanity.tumblr.com/post/112388567579/mechanics-of-divinity-in-thedas) and then I made a joke about how much my Lavellan would hate being a goddess. As always happens when I make a dumb little joke in this fandom, it did not stay a joke and it did not stay little.
> 
> Also heavily inspired by [Feynite's fantastic AUs](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Feynite/pseuds/Feynite); I'll count myself lucky if I can manage a project this ambitious with half as much aplomb.
> 
> Starts a few weeks after the end of Trespasser.

Starting a sentence with the phrase ‘the voices in my head’ never ends well. The only one who really understood was Morrigan, and even given the geas and the revelations about her mother, the witch had been persistently prickly about being deprived of the Well’s knowledge, right up until she vanished without a word. It made sense; Morrigan wanted to avoid her mother’s attention, and there was no doing that in view of the Well’s current host.

But no one else understands, and a lot of them find the idea of a slew of ancient souls taking up residence in the back of her mind alarming. Which is why she’s getting ready to abseil into a sunken ruin alone, even though it’s an unutterably stupid thing to be doing.

She checks the knots, and her anchor (the tree itself is enormous and deeply-rooted; it’s not going anywhere). The descender, at least, she’s quite certain of; Dagna doesn’t do things by halves.

Peering over the edge of the crevasse feeding down into the ruin makes her stomach swoop alarmingly. It’s not nearly as vertigo-inducing as the yawning abysses of the Deep Roads around the Titan, but she really doesn’t like it. It’s strange - being high in the air _above_ ground has always made her feel secure. She loves being able to see for miles, as long as the direction in which she’s seeing isn’t ‘down’ and she’s seeing more than vague shadows.

She kicks a stick over the edge. It vanishes into the darkness.

No noises issue up from the dark.

There’s no one else here, so she lets herself say, “I hate this. I hate everything about this. This is a horrible idea.”

The voices of the Well are silent, although there’s a faint sense of disapproval. She’s not sure if it’s the backtalk or the fact that she’s doing this without backup.

Maybe both.

It’s not the first time she’s engaged in acts of dangerous stupidity trying to reclaim bits of ancient Elvhenan. It _is_ the first time she’s done so in pursuit of information that will (hopefully) help her make her case to the Dread Wolf, though.

She wouldn’t have to do this if he’d talk to her, but he won’t. He didn’t tell her what he’s doing and he didn’t tell her why, and she needs to know both of those things. She needs to know what she’s arguing against for any persuasion to be effective. Blind stumbling is for problems that are less important than the fate of the known world and every soul in it.

She rubs her left arm, where sylvanwood twines around the scarred flesh. The absence of pain is still surprising, after so many months of the mark getting worse. Surviving has left her a little reckless; that will probably fade the next time she has a near-death experience, but for now she’s experiencing occasional feelings of indestructibility.

Which is useful, since she’s about to pitch herself into a chasm.

She flexes her prosthetics’s attenuated fingers and grins. It doesn’t feel the same, and probably never will, but it’s good to have two hands again. And, conveniently for her ill-considered climbing attempts, this one doesn’t get tired.

She checks her ropes a final time, then leans out over the edge.

-=]|[=-

The Veil is in surprisingly good shape, she notes as she descends, which is a relief. Dorian would no doubt frown to hear her say it, but she would be perfectly happy if she never saw another animated corpse.

Hopefully thinking that hasn’t jinxed her.

The voices finally bestir themselves to say a few things to her in snide Elvhen, mostly about irrational superstitions. She understands all the words, though, and just sends back smug self-satisfaction. She doesn’t let herself look down. That way lies vertigo and more judgmental commentary from the voices in her head, although it does sometimes yield useful vocabulary. She wrote down every drop of the language she could wring out of them months ago, and sent it to her clan. Deshanna’s most recent letter said that all of Wycome’s elves were learning—Dalish and city elves alike.

She wishes she could see it, but knowing it’s being learned is enough. She’s always known she’d give anything to be able to give her people’s language back to them, and then she’d been given a chance; her freedom was a small price to pay. Partaking of the Well wasn’t submission, it was sacrifice, and she knew it. In this one thing, the spirits of the Well seem to approve. They understand making sacrifices for the sake of duty.

Halam’shivanas.

The bargain would be a poor one indeed if everyone dies before they get to see a generation brought up speaking Common and Elvhen both, so she really hopes that the records that were here millennia ago remain.

Finally, she runs out of wall, and gets to put her feet back on level ground. Her stomach no longer feels like it’s clinging to her spine in sheer terror.

It’s dark, of course. She summons a little orb of light into her palm. One of the most useful spells the Well taught her; small, cool, easily-doused.

And if you throw it, it explodes bright enough to temporarily blind an enemy, with a noise like a thunderclap.

Terribly useful. Sera can make a flask that does something similar, but although she’d never say it to her friend’s face, she prefers her spells; her magic only blows up when she means it to.

It’s possible Sera’s explosives only go off when she means them to; the one ‘accident’ at camp had been rather suspicious.

Still no walking corpses. Also no darkspawn, red lyrium corruption, or alarming wildlife. No demons. Nothing trying to kill her at all, yet.

Which may make this the nicest ruin she’s ever been in, if she discounts the whole ‘being underground’ bit. And the fact that it smells like mildew and deep mushroom spores. This chamber is mostly empty. The far wall looks like it had a mural, once, but the cracked ceiling has been letting in water for centuries, at least; there’s no making out what it used to be.

A flicker of memory from the Well; it wasn’t finished yet, in this glimpse, but had wolves running along its length, accompanying armed figures. No vallaslin. Probably after the rebellion started, then, which may explain the way this place is hidden, tucked deep below the earth.

_Thank you, _she thinks. She’s still not wholly sure if there are actual souls or just memories, but they feel like people.__

__Across the room, an archway seems to let onto stairs leading down, deeper into the ruin. There is a vague push that direction, and she follows it._ _

__A spirit blazes into view, barring her way. It barks in Elvhen, and it takes her a heartbeat to translate; startlement still drives the meaning out of her head, sometimes._ _

__“You do not belong here.”_ _

__The spirits at the mountain ruins had to be woken; the Qunari wrote as much. She wonders what’s drawn this one back to its duty. If a horde of Qunari rummaging about didn’t wake the guardians there, surely her own intrusion shouldn’t have been sufficient to do so here. She composes her own thoughts into Elvhen, so she can reply in kind._ _

__“Has Solas been here?” He has. She knows that. This was his; the mural has faded, but he left his mark, once. “Recently,” she amends._ _

__It says nothing. But it also doesn’t attack._ _

__The voices of the Well don’t seem to have anything to add, so she tries what worked before;_ _

__“I swear myself to the cause of freedom for the future.”_ _

__She let the words roll off her tongue without thinking about what they meant, last time, because she was afraid and dying and desperate. She means them, now. It’s a worthy struggle. She just disagrees quite profoundly with Solas’s methods and means._ _

__The spirit nods. It slides into comfortable Common._ _

__“You are one of the descendants. The ones who are trapped within their flesh.”_ _

__That sounds creepily like it’s planning to divest her of her skin. She tenses, but it doesn’t attack. Just an unfortunate turn of phrase, then._ _

__“I… suppose so.”_ _

__“I am Conviction.”_ _

__That explains why it’s still here. Duty. It also complicates things, because in a certain light, her larger goals could be read as an attempt to persuade Solas to abandon his convictions. She thinks of it more as re-framing the fundamental problem, but arguing semantics with spirits is a fool’s errand._ _

__“May I pass, Conviction?”_ _

__It studies her, and she sets her jaw. She will go through the spirit, if she has to, but she’d rather not. Solas asked it to stay. She’s so far managed not to murder any of his people, and she’d like to keep it that way._ _

__“You are committed,” it tells her, “but to many causes. You are conflicted. You should choose more carefully, that you may dedicate yourself fully.”_ _

__Which isn’t a no, but also isn’t a yes. She waits._ _

__“Which of your causes is most important?”_ _

__“Giving my people a world they can thrive in.”_ _

__It’s entirely possible Solas would give the very same answer. Whatever else he means to do, that is a part of it. She’s here because she needs to know the rest._ _

__She’s gotten used to hiding how badly she wants things. Desire is a weakness, in many of the situations she’s found herself in over the past several years. But she isn’t bargaining, here; it might even be counter-productive to conceal her feelings. So she doesn’t push her expression towards neutrality._ _

__It means she edges into what Sera charmingly refers to as ‘the murder-face.’ The spirit stares._ _

__She stares back._ _

__It nods, finally._ _

__“You seek to change the Dread Wolf’s heart.”_ _

__“His mind. His heart already knows, or he wouldn’t be so conflicted.”_ _

__“Changing his mind will be harder.”_ _

__As if she’s afraid of hard work._ _

__The spirit nods again, like it heard that as some kind of answer. It probably did._ _

__She waits. “I’m not protesting, but… You aren’t going to try and stop me?”_ _

__“Pride is conflicted. Your success would realign his convictions, strengthen them. Enter,” it says, moving aside. “May you find what you seek.”_ _

__She raises her glowspell and descends deeper._ _

 

 

-=]|[=-

The ruins are better-preserved down here. They’re delightful - if she had time, she could spend weeks here. She lights a series of Veilfire torches as she goes. Three of the runes she’s found so far posed riddles. Another offered what seems to be an enchantment that creates ambient birdsong. She’s not sure why anyone would feel compelled to record that for posterity, so there has to be more to it.

She makes note of it.

The fourth riddle points her in the right direction, and she finds where the records were stored, sliding a mosaicked wall panel away to reveal another room. Several of the spells seem to have decayed away until the recordings are unusable, and a few crumble when she touches them. A handful do retain what they were meant to hold, though, albeit fragmented.

 _Alright, vhenan,_ she thinks. _Let’s see if I can figure this out._

Her glowspell goes into the sconce next to the rows upon rows of tablets to free up her hands. She hovers her fingers over the edges, trailing her magic over each one. She plucks up the one that feels most complete, and the room around her fades as the memory pulls her in.

She hears Solas, gets a wash of thoughts and feelings from whoever recorded this; they admired him enormously, thought, ‘this is for the best.’ She can only catch a few words of the conversation. Something about Mythal, and a Titan, and nothing about horrible calamities, so obviously this was early on, before things had gone wrong and the People withdrawn back to the surface. Maybe she was wrong about the age of this place, or maybe this record is older still.

Then the recorder turns to look at Solas more fully and she nearly falls out of the memory in shock.

He’s wearing vallaslin. Mythal’s.

At first, she thinks it’s just the wrongness of that raising the hairs on the back of her neck, but the feeling gets worse. She puts down the stone.

The Veil feels wrong, like the hum of it has gone suddenly sour. Even thin - even TORN - it has never sounded like this. That’s… disquieting.

Solas’s words a month ago led her to believe that she had years. So what is this?

She plucks up all the tablets that feel whole enough to offer useful information, trying not to touch them with bare skin for long enough to activate anything. Little fragments flare up, regardless, and she catches words, feelings, colors - even smells, a few times. She nestles them carefully into her satchel, cushioned by her cloak, a map, a handful of elfroot leaves that she gathered out of habit even though she no longer needs to manage her own pain. Her glowspell, she retrieves from the little bracket where she’d rested it.

She turns, and finds a sword at her throat.

This, she thinks, is why memory recordings are a poor way of storing things. It’s like being there, which means you can’t see or hear what’s going on around you. It leaves you vulnerable.

“Shemlen. What have you stolen?”

She suppresses the urge to sigh. He’s speaking Common, at least. That’s something.

“Can you steal what no one owns?”

He glowers. Not fond of riddles. Alright, then.

“It belongs to the Elvhen. You will—”

He’s distracted enough, while speaking, to lower the point of his sword a hair. It’s enough. She gets a barrier up between her and the blade.

Questions are such lovely, versatile things.

There isn’t much room to maneuver. This is going to be unpleasant. She throws her glowspell and turns her face towards the wall, trying to cover her ears. The explosion is horrible from close range; the noise vibrates through her in punishing waves of force, not just sound. Even with her eyes closed and turned away, the brightness leaves spots dancing in her vision.

She waves a hand at the empty sconce, summoning Veilfire so she can see again, blinking rapidly to try and clear her eyes. Her opponent seems to be cursing, to judge by his expression and the rapidity with which his mouth is moving. She can’t hear it, of course—she’s just as deafened as he is, but much less disoriented. She throws out an arm, using magic to shove him away so she can get into the corridor and have more room. He’s managed to keep a hold on his sword, and she has to dodge quickly out of the way of a retaliatory slash.

The sword flares, flame sheathing the blade, and she sighs. She plunges the temperature and buries him up to the knees in ice. Even with a fire spell, that will take some time to melt if he doesn’t want to do himself an injury.

He seems to be yelling at her, now, and has added threatening motions with the sword. He can apparently see her again. He recovered quickly; she’s rather impressed.

She gestures at her own ears, flicking them forward and back in the ‘I can’t hear you’ gesture everyone learns in childhood. He glares. A healing spell chases the ringing from her own ears, and she waits to see if he’ll do the same.

He doesn’t. The ice around his feet starts to steam.

She sighs, and flicks another, weaker healing spell his way. Talking is more productive when both parties can hear. The boy flinches like he expects an attack, and she fights not to roll her eyes. She also summons another glowspell, just in case, and he tries to rear back and then flails rather comically when his feet refuse to move.

She’s not putting the tablets back, and she’s not handing them over, but he’s probably one of Solas’s people, and she does not want this to escalate into a real fight.

If all else fails, he can take a little nap and wake up none the worse for wear once she’s well out of range.

“What’s your name?”

“What will you do with it?” Wary. Ridiculous. What’s she going to do with a name? She does roll her eyes, this time.

“Call you something other than ‘boy’ in my head.”

His frown edges dangerously close to a pout, and she feels more certain than ever that he’s young. Whatever that means with the ancients.

If she met him at an Arlathven, though, she’d say he was barely old enough to try for vallaslin.

He looks at her again, and his eyes stick on her left arm. It’s easy to miss, in the dark - the wood is nearly the same color as her skin.

“You’re—fenhedis. I… should not have threatened you.”

“Your manners did leave something to be desired, but I don’t think that’s what you mean.”

“You’re the Inquisitor.”

“Not anymore,” she points out.

“Taminsa is going to kill me.” Then he winces. He probably didn’t mean to say that. The name is familiar, though.

“Did she get promoted? I wondered, when I stopped seeing her around.”

He stares.

“Once she knew she’d been made, she decided to let me tell her things over tea instead of skulking about. She probably still did that, just… less.”

He works his mouth. No sound comes out.

“One of my friends was Ben Hassrath and another is a professional agitator. They’re good at finding leaks.”

Still staring.

“Also, it’s very good tea. What has Taminsa been up to?”

“Telling Fen’Harel he looks tired and needs more rest.”

She tries not to laugh. She’d said, right after the Exalted Council, that he’d had dark circles under his eyes, and she was terribly worried, and she hadn’t been able to find him in the Fade for days. She’d done it publicly, around as many suspiciously tall elves as she could feasibly manage to have within earshot.

Cassandra’s deeply disgusted noise and later attempts to talk with her about her romantic troubles had been worth it, because three of them had scurried off and she’d been reasonably sure they were going to express concerns about their leader’s sleeping habits.

That it’s apparently still bearing fruit weeks later is deeply gratifying. And also amusing.

“It is important to get enough rest.” She knows her expression is giving her away, but she can’t help it. It’s ‘pleased cat-smile’ or laughing herself sick, and the later is unwise when he still has a sword and might be inclined to use it.

He’s staring again.

“How did you subvert—”

“I didn’t,” she interrupts sharply. That’s—he can’t say that. That could get people killed. “I didn’t subvert anyone. Taminsa was getting more information out of me, not less. I’m not trying to hide. I’m not trying to trick him. I’m trying to change his mind, and I know better than to try to do it with lies. I do not care what he knows or finds out, because he is wrong and I am going to prove it.”

A long moment.

“Iselen.”

It takes her a heartbeat to register that as a name. Fire? Fitting, she thinks.

The sour hum sharpens, and she shakes her head. It’s not hurting her ears, she knows; she’s not actually hearing it at all. But that is a horrible noise.

“Is that your people?” she asks him. She thought she had years, but maybe she doesn’t. Maybe she needs to move faster.

“Is… what my people?”

“The Veil,” she says impatiently. “It’s doing something.”

He shakes his head. “Nothing was planned.” Maybe it’s to do with the strangeness in the Veil, but that feels truthful. The Well pushes at her, urging her to embrace that sense, and at least with magical phenomena, the guidance it offers has always been very good. She reaches out. Truth is sweet as sun-ripened berries.

He looks like he’s trying to sense what she does, and she realizes, “You can’t tell.”

He looks uncomfortable.

“I thought all of you were more sensitive to it than we are.”

He looks away, mouth set. She nudges at that feeling of truth, again, trying to see more.

“I was born after the fall of Elvhenan.”

Oh. She remembers one of the writing fragments the voices of the Well translated for her: _The ones born here do not understand the keenness of what we have lost, or why so many of their elders weep as they enter uthenera._

What must it be like, to grow up around immortals who consider you deaf and blind and damaged? She feels a wave of sympathy, but wrestles it down. She glued his feet to the floor for a reason.

The extra layer of perception shifts, just a hair, and she wonders,

“Why are you frightened?” It’s not of her, even though she’s conclusively proven she can beat him in a fight.

“I’m not!” The lie is bitter, like the herbal concoction Keeper Deshanna sentenced her to when she caught a fever from following a stupid dare. She grimaces.

“You—” he pales. “You can tell.”

She tilts her head. Interesting. It doesn’t work that way for him. Whatever the Veil is doing, this new strangeness isn’t universal. The Well nudges at her. Go, it says, in the strange, unified way that indicates Mythal wants something.

Well, if whatever is happening to the Veil isn’t Solas’s people, then she needs to know what it is. Right. She needs to get out of here.

“I’m sorry,” she says, and he seems confused, for a long moment, before deciding take it as pity and take offense. Before he can snap at her, she’s wrapped him in a sleep compulsion. She dispels the ice and catches him on a cushion of mostly-negated gravity, lowering him softly to the floor.

Wards, she thinks, and sets spells to circle him in protections that will keep him safe until he wakes.

It reminds her of a conversation from years ago, and she laughs at herself when she pulls out the rabbit haunch she was saving for dinner.

Sentimental and foolish, she chides herself.

She leaves it anyway.

-=]|[=-

Climbing back out of the hole is much more difficult, and she keeps wanting to pin her ears against the awful noise of the Veil even though it obviously won’t help. It doesn’t change, even as she climbs out of the ruin. Not localized, then, or if it is, it’s a large area. It sounds the same in every direction.

She gathers her things and stows them in her hart’s saddlebags, and is just checking the fastenings when the Veil shivers, shudders, shatters like old silk. The Fade streams through the tatters like sunlight.

 _No,_ she thinks, desperate. She was supposed to have time.

She waits for fire. He said her world would burn in the raw chaos. She wonders if death will hurt.

One heartbeat. Two. A dozen.

The Veil is still there. Damaged, different, probably permanently changed, but… still there.

And nothing seems to be on fire yet.

Once the initial panic subsides, she looks around and wonder bubbles up inside her. It’s like she’s been using her magic, all her life, to feel the shape of things in a lightless room, and someone has just lit a candle. She can see things without reaching for them. The spells in the ruins are old and crumbling, like the stones they were laid into. She can tell exactly how much of the information on the recording tablets in her bag is still comprehensible. She can suddenly see half a dozen ways to improve the enchantments on her armor, and knows why her staff harmonizes so well with calling lightning.

It’s… a lot.

Her hart snorts at her, concerned, and she strokes his nose.

“I’m fine.” It’s entirely true. She’s never felt better.

The magic seems to flow, and she understands why Solas compared it to a river. She looks around and can see the currents. The holes in the Veil let it through in shifting, sparkling bursts that look a little like dappled sunlight, when they slow. Pretty, if she doesn’t think too hard about the fact that the fabric of reality is apparently now made of tattered cheesecloth.

On the plus side, there’s no pressure differential, this time. Spirits aren’t being dragged through forcibly. Which means fewer demons.

Yay.

Then one of the faster-moving magical currents shifts, and she’s yanked into an undertow.

Inanely, her only thought is, ‘oh. That’s why Solas said it could drown unwary children.’ Then there’s a howling din that smothers her own thoughts. It’s a screaming cacophony, and she tries to cover her ears even knowing it won’t do any good. Like the hum of the Veil, like the voices of the Vir Abelasan, this is in her head. The bark of her sylvanwood palm is rough against her skin before that sensation is swept away, too.

It’s too much.

She staggers, and feels a profound sense of disgust with her own weakness even though she kind of wants to throw up, and then everything goes dark.

 

-=]|[=-

Her hart snorts in alarm, nostrils flaring and eyes rolling as he looks for the danger. When nothing appears, he nudges his rider, gently.

She doesn’t move. He sets himself as a sentry. Head up, ears flicking to get a clear picture of the surroundings.

She will wake. Until then, he will guard.

 

-=]|[=-

“Well, well,” Mythal says. “You do seem to attract trouble.”

She’s in the Fade. It feels strange, but maybe that’s not surprising; it’s not as clearly-separated from the waking world, now.

“It’s a talent,” she agrees, and Mythal chuckles.

“A bit of advice,” the goddess says. “In the future, don’t listen to all of your petitioners at once.”

“I… beg your pardon?”

“Prayers, girl. Listen to one at a time, if you’re going to listen at all. They add up quite quickly.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she admits.

Mythal studies her.

“No, I don’t suppose you do. It’s very difficult to anticipate what you have no reason to imagine could ever occur. The power of belief is in the world again. And you have inspired a great deal.”

She thinks of Morrigan, saying, _is it Andraste’s name they invoke in battle, I wonder, or does a more immediate name spring to their lips?_

“I sincerely hope you are not telling me that I’m a demigod now.”

“You can ignore it, if you like. Shove the power away with both hands. But can you bring yourself to do so, if it means watching those you care for suffer, while you do nothing?”

The goddess studies her, with a small smile playing about her lips. She knows the answer already. Of course she can’t. That was why she was Inquisitor. She took the chance to change things because her people - all of her people - needed her protection, needed her help.

“You have a good story,” Mythal continues. “You are fortunate in that. The Dread Wolf did well in helping you shape it. It frees you of a great many constraints.” And then, musingly, “I wonder if it was deliberate?”

He’d said something, in the Frostback Basin, about the importance of observances. In the Arbor Wilds temple, too. What kind of rituals, she wonders, could be tied to her narrative, if that’s what determines such a thing?

The only thing that comes to mind is…

“People ask me for help,” she says.

Mythal nods. “And that may well be all it will take to strengthen you, if you favor them and encourage it to continue.”

Which puts her in the unpleasant position of choosing between accruing more unwanted power when she helps, or refusing to lend her aid and hoping it goes away.

“And now I can tell when people are telling the truth?”

“Could you not tell before?” Mythal asks, with an arch of her brows.

“Usually. But it didn’t taste like poison when people lied.”

“Interesting,” Mythal murmurs. “You’ll bear closer watching.”

Right. That was a stupid thing to say.

Mythal looks into the middle distance almost absently, giving the distinct impression that her attention is elsewhere. It sounds like whispers around her. If she focuses, she swears she can make out individual voices.

And that might be unusual, too. Since she’s given away more than enough, for the time being, she asks the first question that comes to mind:

“If belief is a source of power, is that why Falon’din went to war to amass more worshipers?”

Mythal’s gold eyes narrow, and her smile goes sharp.

“What _has_ the wolf been telling you?”

More than he should have, apparently. So her questions give away too much, too. She hedges,

“He argued with Morrigan, a bit, in the temple.”

Mythal laughs, and the misdirection seems work.

“Oh, I would have liked to see that.” And it’s like something slips, because suddenly amusement is glittering in the air around her.

“It would have been more entertaining if the situation had been a little less desperate.”

Mythal waves that off. “You’ll have to share the full story some other time. For now, I think you’ll find you need to make yourself scarce. The Dread Wolf will be looking for you, and if you’ve suddenly acquired more power than the Vir Abelasan gave you, well - let’s just say he hasn’t always allowed emotional considerations to sway him when they are weighed against his goals.”

That’s a warning, she realizes, and goes cold. She doesn’t think he’d hurt her, but…

“What did he do to you?”

“Nothing I did not allow. Nothing I could not survive. You, however, would not be so fortunate. Be careful, child.”

And that - that's an order, one she can't disobey because of the geas. Which makes the issue of whether or not she believes the warning largely academic. Mythal fixes her with a long, considering stare, and then adds,

“The Well will have a few things to teach you, I think. You may find them useful. Now, you have things to do. It’s time for you to wake.”

Her eyes snap open.

So. She’s apparently a demigod. ‘This Shit Is Weird’ doesn’t even begin to cover it.

She needs to retreat, and regroup. The rest... she'll think about the rest later.

-=]|[=-

"She left food out. 'For the giant spiders,' she said." Conviction frowns. "There are no spiders. I have been vigilant."

Solas takes a slow breath. Conviction hovers at his shoulder.

"It was a message," he says. A reminder. She listened. She's still listening.

"She will protect," the spirit says.

Yes. She always has.

And her world will need it.


	2. Shadows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With thanks to [emmadirthera](http://emmadirthera.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, who was enormously helpful when I was running around in circles crying about the Blight, and to [ObsidianMichi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ObsidianMichi/pseuds/ObsidianMichi), who continues to let me babble and has been unfailingly supportive when I whine over IM. Thank you both!

Maybe the most distressing part of the whole thing is that she isn’t more upset. So much has gone wrong. It’s a whole litany of disasters, many of which she’s going to be expected to fix simply by virtue of being the person who stopped the last world-threatening catastrophe. Once people get used to looking to you for solutions, they never really stop. That is part of why Cassandra looked for the Hero of Ferelden and Hawke to lead the Inquisition, after all.

She knew disbanding the Inquisition wouldn’t fix that, but it was meant to help. To remind everyone that needing rescuing once doesn’t mean they can’t save themselves, too.

Stopping Solas is her problem because no one else seems to want him to survive the process. She has to do that. More than that, she wants to. She’s so tired, though. She’d really hoped that three years of everything she had, everything she is, might have been enough for the rest of the world.

But she can’t walk away. She’s never been able to walk away from people who need her. A lot of people are going to be terrified even if by some miracle this is localized.

She’s clinging to the hope that it _is_ localized, because the best-case scenario still involves gaping holes in the Veil letting torrents of magic through and offering an open door to spirits and demons both. And this is what happened in a place where the Veil was comparatively healthy. What it might do (might have already done) to a place like Kirkwall… doesn’t really bear thinking about.

The city itself she could give a fig for, but Varric lives there, and she cares a great deal what happens to him.

He’s not the only person she’s worried about, either.

She knows Keeper Deshanna will protect the clan, enable them to protect each other. Her family will be as safe as anyone could be, but it doesn’t stop the concern.

Then there’s her friends. Bull and Sera will hate this. If Dagna is with Sera, though, she’ll be able to help. Bull has the Chargers. Irara (clearly not her name, but calling someone ‘Dalish’ was even weirder than accepting the obvious pseudonym ‘I’m me’) would die before she let anything happen to the others.

So she’s worried about her people, and there are holes in reality that she is no longer equipped to repair. Her magic feels wrong. There are even more voices in her head. The goddess who has her on a leash is very probably declaring vendetta against the man she loves, whose plans are no doubt in disarray and who may or may no do something drastic and ill-considered in response.

Any single component of the current mess would be enough to throw her. All of it taken together should have knocked her off her feet.

It hasn’t.

It doesn’t feel like the vacant, cottony distance of shock, either. Which might mean it has to do with the ‘power of belief’ Mythal spoke of. Other people have always seemed to see her as certain, as confident, even when she was scrambling internally. There’s only her hart and the voices of the Well, here; Ghileth never judges and the voices always do. There’s no one to impress, now. She could be forgiven a moment’s panic.

She feels truly centered, though, instead of just projecting it. It’s good, probably. Maybe she shouldn’t question it. This is who she’s always tried to be.

It isn’t who she is, though.

The disquiet around that thought, at least, is familiar. That definitely belongs to her, not to whoever other people think she is.

And at least who people think she is is based on her, in some form or fashion. The idea of Solas feeling a similar push, though, towards what other people think he is, drops the bottom out of her stomach. She’d pray, if there were anyone to pray _to_ , but she doesn’t believe in the Maker, and given everything that’s happened, her own wishes probably do more good than prayers to gods he imprisoned or one who is furious with him.

Maybe good wishes can help, a little. If belief means anything at all, well, she believes in him. She always has, even though she’s been told repeatedly that she’s a blind fool for it.

_I believe in you, vhenan._

She ties everything she feels to that thought; admiration and helpless, hopeless fondness and every ounce of faith she has ever had in all the best parts of him. She knows what people believe of the Dread Wolf, and the idea of that touching him makes her furious and terribly sad. She can feel power peel away and shoot into the ether; the wish to protect him, given power, feels a little like casting a barrier.

She thinks she feels something echo back, but it’s probably her imagination. She doesn’t reach for it. That ended in blacking out, last time, and she’s considerably farther off the ground, now. Ghileth is very tall a the shoulder and she’d rather not hit packed earth from quite this high up.

So; the Veil is torn, belief is power, and the Evanuris are probably waking up. She needs to know how far this goes. Happily, there’s an easy way to find out if it stretches over all of Thedas.

If it’s reached as far as Tevinter, the answer is probably ‘yes.’

She fishes her pendant out from beneath her outer layers and flips the clasp with her thumb, the motion easy and familiar even after only a few weeks.

“Dorian? I need a favor.”

There’s a long moment where she worries that maybe it does cover all of Thedas. Then he answers, and she knows that, whatever else may be true, Tevinter is not on fire.

She has mixed feelings about that. Dorian loves his homeland, but she’s Dalish. Ah, well, it’s not as if she’s wished for the whole country to get overrun with Qunari and fall into the sea _out loud_.

“You know I’m always delighted to hear your dulcet tones, my dear. What can I do for you?”

“How would you describe the state of the Veil in Minrathous?”

“I don’t like it when the Inquisitor asks me about the state of the Veil. It’s disquieting. Are we about to be overrun with yet another legion of demons?”

“You aren’t,” she says. Hopefully. She’ll try not to let that be a lie. Even Tevinter might not deserve that. The upper echelons mostly do, but it’s the weak who’d bear the brunt of it, not the Magisterium. The half-truth nags at her, though, bitter on her tongue, and she tacks on, “probably.”

“What do you need?” Now he sounds serious.

“You to put that voice away, for one,” she says. “You sounding serious always makes me worry that one of us is about to die.”

“A reasonable concern,” he allows.

He murmurs something away from the crystal, and she hears him moving.

“I need you to send a raven to Leliana. I’m going to be… delayed.”

The click of a closing door, the faint hum of a blurring spell.

“I’ve gotten away. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“The Veil is broken. It’s not like the Breach; it’s stable. Maybe permanent. And I don’t think it was Solas.”

He sucks in a breath and she can already hear the arguments, has heard them before. She doesn’t have time to rehash all the ways in which she’s being foolish.

“Dorian, you can berate me for my terrible taste and poor judgment later. Right now, I need you to accept that I believe this was a third party and that we have a problem. Leliana needs to know, because people are going to be panicking and as Divine she’s in a position to help. If she doesn’t hear from me in two days, she needs to gather up as much of the College as will make the trip, make overtures to Vivienne and the Circle, and send everyone to the Korcari Wilds.

Another thought and… oh, that could be nasty. “No Tranquil.”

Dorian makes an inquiring noise. “You think that whatever is happening could have an adverse effect on the Tranquil?”

“The Fade is coming through tears in the Veil in _torrents_. I have no idea if that would undo the severing, but I do know that all known instances of reversal in mages leave us with limited control of our emotions, and magic is much stronger here than in the presence of the undamaged Veil. If it _does_ reverse Tranquility, I don’t think they’d be able to help doing unconscious magic, and then we’ll have complete bedlam and half a dozen secondary disasters. I’m not sure how to deal with the first round, yet.”

“The Fade is _physically_ coming through the tears?” He sounds fascinated, then audibly reels himself back in. “Tell me you have someone with you.”

“Does Ghileth count?”

“No, your massive cervidae most assuredly does _not_ count.”

“Then in the interest of honesty, I’m going to remain silent on the subject.”

“This is why you don’t think he’s a lying ass," Dorian mutters. “Fine. I’ll send the pretender Divine a message. You are terrible for my reputation.”

“What reputation?”

“Remind me: Why do I like you?”

“My irresistible charm, obviously. That, or you have terrible taste.”

“I clearly have questionable taste in _friends,_ anyway.

A pause. The levity dies away again.

“Be careful,” he urges. “I’ll be very cross with you if you die.”

“I’ll do my best to avoid it. Thank you, Dorian.”

“Ugh, don’t say that. Those are terrible last words. Trite. Banal. The only thing that would be worse is asking for my prayers or best wishes. Pick something else.”

She feels a little glow of warmth behind her sternum and suspects he is praying for her, after a fashion. Oh, Dorian.

“Fine,” she accedes. “Tell Aurelius that if he’s going to supplement his height with his shoes, he needs a better cobbler. I can hear the heels clicking even over the sending crystals.”

“Much better!”

He clicks the amulet closed without a proper farewell, and she laughs. It loosens her muscles, but it does something interesting to her magic, too; there’s more of it, now, too much to fit inside her skin, and this feels like it looks when a bird resettles its feathers. Her power eases, tension unspooling.

It’s a nice feeling.

First things first; she needs to know if the damage has an epicenter. The Breach was easy to find. It was visible from most of southern Thedas. Whatever this is, it isn’t as obvious… but there must be a source.

She slows Ghileth to an easy walk, closing her eyes so she can listen. It doesn’t help much; the wrongness of the Veil before it tore is gone, but the new tone is alien to her. If it indicates a direction, she can’t tell.

Her strongest sense, now, is unquestionably her magic. It can reach farther and tell her more. The question is, can she focus it in tightly enough not to get swept away in other people’s thoughts?

She blows out a long breath.

Does she have any choice but to try?

She’s careful, this time. She doesn’t reach out in wonder. She extends one tentative finger of magic to take the pulse of the world.

And she gets an answer; east. East and south.

That would make sense, after a fashion. The Veil was healthy here. The same cannot be said of Ostagar, or the stretch of Wilds where Urthemiel rose as an Archdemon. That is the direction her magic seems to be pulling her.

She collects herself and urges Ghileth into a ground-devouring gallop.

 

-=]|[=-

They have to slow as they travel deeper into the Wilds; solid strips of land give way unexpectedly to deep, sucking mud. Ghileth is dark up to the hocks with it before they’ve gone more than two miles, and she strokes his neck.

“Thank you.”

She’d never make such good time on foot; the brackish water that comes up to her hart’s knees is nearer to mid-thigh on her, and trying to pick her way around the marshy sections would lose even more time.

He snorts out a breath in response, but the set of his ears says he doesn’t mind. Harts may not be as clever as halla, but they’re hard workers.

They have to be getting close, now; the tears are wider, here, the magic pouring through faster and more potent. She can barely hear the Veil’s hum over the susurrations of the Fade.

She keeps seeing things out of the corner of her eye, only to turn and see ghostly green-tinged forms wisping away. Not spirits; not even whole memories. Wisps and fragments.

And then they crest a ridge, and she sees the dragon.

Ghileth snorts in alarm and she readies a spell before realizing it’s hazy green and blurred at the edges. It’s a memory, fighting a quartet of equally ghostly figures she’s too far away to make out clearly. Ghileth takes another deep breath trying to scent the large thing before accepting her sudden lack of fear to mean there’s nothing to be afraid of. She pats his withers.

They walk closer, and the whole tableau - dragon and fighters - blurs away into undefined Fadestuff. Reality isn’t meant to work this way, but at least nothing she’s seen so far was trying to kill her.

She looks past the clearing and sees a cottage, curiously pristine. It feels empty - is empty, her magic says, and has been for some time - but that can’t be right.

_…the world feared that she might return._

How many such places can the Wilds hold?

She nudges Ghileth to move closer to the cottage; she wants a better look. The magic around it is strange, something she can’t quite catch.

“Oh, there you are,” Mythal says. Ghileth, already on edge, spins without prompting, very nearly dumping his rider into the reeds. She manages to keep her seat, but it’s a near thing.

The goddess is smirking.

“Here I am,” she agrees, keeping her expression neutral.

“You took your time in arriving, but I suppose that’s my own fault for not making it a command. I require a service.”

A reminder that she’s been lenient, before now, and that she has leverage. Mythal will have what she wants, one way or another. The wind stirs the grasses, but not her clothing or hair. She’s slightly translucent; more clearly-defined than the memories, but no more substantial than a spirit.

If this is the alternative to being ‘trapped within her flesh,’ well, being a descendant or a remnant or a shadow of what she should be suddenly doesn’t sound so bad.

“What does the Deliverer of Justice wish of me?”

“It has been a long time indeed since anyone has addressed me by that title.”

“Have you discarded it?”

“Quite the opposite, in point of fact. Your courtesy is appreciated, although your manners would be much more refreshing if the last hero to offer me such in this place hadn’t subsequently returned looking for blood.”

“I can well imagine that you are heartily sick of people attempting to kill you.”

Mythal chuckles darkly.

“You have no idea, dear girl. But you may, in time. As to what I require of you... assistance. Bodies may be limiting, but being without is swiftly becoming tiresome. There is only so much one can arrange from behind a curtain - or a Veil, in this case.”

Mythal catches something in her face, even though she tries to hold it still, and smiles again. Her voice is almost gentle when she continues,

“You needn’t look so alarmed. Your head is quite crowded enough as it is.” She continues more briskly. “No, as things stand, you need sacrifice nothing but a bit of your time, and the tiniest fragment of belief.”

“Belief?”

Acting more ignorant than she is has served her well in the past; will the goddess let slip something she doesn’t yet know?

Mythal waves a hand, ghostly gauntlet glinting with light that isn’t passing through the dreary Fereldan clouds.

“Your own faith, if you can muster any. I realize that may be difficult for you, however, and a seed of what has been given to you will suffice well enough. We do not have time for the more elegant alternatives, alas.”

She’s in a hurry. Solas is in a hurry. Why are all these immortals acting like something is on fire and needs putting out? She nearly asks, but as best she’s been able to tell, Mythal appreciates courtesy and compliance. Occasionally also being amused.

Questions are better saved until she’s in a more receptive mood.

“Once you have done this, you may ask what you will.”

There is no accompanying promise to answer, which makes her chuckle. Mythal’s eyes warm a fraction, and the voices of the Well say it’s approval. Mythal has very little use for fools.

“Very well. What do I need to do?"

-=]|[=-

The ritual is surprisingly simple. A handful of words, a fragment of belief, an old amulet carved from dragon’s horn that Mythal directs her to inside the cottage. There is a thin layer of dust, but otherwise, the interior is entirely undisturbed. There are no signs of insects or larger pests, no plants intruding on the packed earth.

The actual process is not unlike laying down an enchantment, as the Dalish use the term - there’s no lyrium involved, just layer upon layer of spells meant to harmonize, weave together, settle into the fabric of the item being cast upon. This is much stronger, and she feels exhausted when it’s done, but mechanically, it’s very similar. Two heartbeats after that, the amulet glows and then seems to twist out of existence.

Mythal stands before her, looking much as she did in the Fade.

Much the same, but not entirely. She looks younger and less human. Not entirely elven, either, though. Parts of her previous decorative hairstyle seem to have been replaced with actual dragon horns.

“Aren’t those heavy?”

Just wearing a helmet is enough to make her neck hurt; those aren’t small horns, and Mythal is not a Qunari, with a neck thicker than most people’s thighs.

The goddess chuckles.

“Many things are heavy. Responsibility. Guilt. Life. In comparison, a little vanity hardly registers.”

Fair enough.

Mythal studies her again and sighs.

“Ask, child. Your questions are buzzing like an entire hive’s worth of angry bees.”

“Curiosity buzzes?”

That was not what she meant to ask. It's like being a child again, the questions spilling out. Everyone told her she had to be one of the god of knowledge's chosen, but that she couldn't be a secret-keeper until she learned to hold her tongue and her truths. She learned how, but it's hard when everything has changed and become freshly, fascinatingly new. And terrifying; the fear offers a compelling reason to learn more, and quickly.

“Those who can perceive such will generally sense a vibration.” Those who can sense it? So not everyone can. Who can? Who cannot?

Mythal’s face doesn’t change, but the air around her ripples in amusement; there is the same curious loosening in Mythal’s magic that she’s experienced in her own. The mirth is a shallow layer over a truly terrifying depth of icy rage, but there are other things, too. Before she can identify them, Mythal draws her power close, again, and it’s as impenetrable as armor again.

“Yours is more insistent than most,” Mythal tells her. “Learn to tamp it down, if you can; polite interest in others is one thing, but taken to extremes it becomes… obtrusive.”

It’s rude. Or was rude; modern society’s rules about having feelings in public don’t really cover auras, or whatever these are. Well, she _did_ learn to restrain herself from asking too many questions out loud, most of the time; this can’t be too much more difficult.

“Better,” Mythal says, so apparently it’s as simple as not focusing entirely on her queries and the person she’s questioning. Which… admittedly does feel somewhat like her brain is buzzing. The idea of that feeling leaking into the air is a bit embarrassing. She’s known, objectively, that her stronger feelings and desires filter into the Fade, but they’ve never been perceptible to anyone she was speaking to except spirits.

And the spirits haven’t ever seemed to mind.

“What determines who perceives what?” She focuses; _this_ question, not the web of related questions, not what different possible answers might mean.

“One who knows you well will see more than most,” Mythal starts, and she can’t help the hitch in her breath at the words.

_You saw more than most._

She bites down on the pain of that memory, and knows it has to be obvious even as she tries to control it. There was a reason Cole tried so hard to help her, after. 

Mythal tilts her head, inquiring, but does not pry. After a beat she continues,

“The rest will generally be determined by their dominant virtue.”

Dominant virtue - like spirits? Spirits don’t have bodies, but everything she saw in the Vir Dirthara made it clear that the ancient Elvhen didn’t necessarily have to, either.

“You’ll be familiar with some of the variations. People change very little, wherever and _however_ they are. Some are as perceptive as the average rock, some are too self-absorbed to comprehend what they see. Some will pluck every thought out of your head if you don’t learn to defend yourself. The Well of Sorrows can help you with that. Unless I miss my guess, you’ll want to make use of what it can teach you.”

Yes, she thinks uneasily. She remembers Dirthamen’s temple. It wasn’t just the god; his priests could do the same thing.

“I will. Thank you.”

Mythal waves that away and waits. Awaiting her questions, though she makes no promise to answer.

This, first; map the threat.

“What happened to the Veil? I know it’s somewhat localized - do you know how far it reaches?” Once she knows where it is, she can learn how to address it, how to help. If it can be helped. Can it be? How?

She doesn't even know how Solas made the Veil, not really. She knows Tarasyl'an Te'las was involved, and an unfathomable amount of power that was nonetheless everything he had and then some, but...

“The title of Inquisitor clearly suited you. You’ve hit upon the right ones, too - or some of them. _I_ happened to it. The scale is limited, for now; a stretch of southern Ferelden. Southron Hills. A swathe of the Hinterlands. North as far as Lothering, I believe. You will have time to prepare your people, elsewhere.”

Elsewhere. Which means—

“How fast will it spread?”

“As fast as it needs to; letting in a glimmer of light before the shadows fall. The wolf would use your world as a torch, instead, but the People are yet bright and vibrant. Do you need a fire, I wonder? I’m inclined to see if you can light your own way through the darkness.”

“That’s… cryptic.”

“Is it? You aren’t blind anymore, girl. Stop walking with your eyes shut.”

It’s not an order, not quite - doesn’t have the same irresistible force behind it. There is a push, though. A suggestion, backed up with will.

She reaches out with her magic.

Shadows. Faint around the cottage, but darker the further she looks. They sing, and she can almost understand the words. If she just reaches out—

“Stop,” Mythal orders sharply.

She’s yanked back into her body, and for a handful of heartbeats it feels like it doesn’t quite fit. She focuses on breathing.

Her breath feels wrong.

“What _is_ that?”

“That is the encroaching darkness, the consuming shadow. You know what it is.”

And she does. She’s heard it before.

“It’s the Blight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not where I was expecting this chapter to go, but I couldn't make her stop thinking or asking questions, so Oh Look Everyone Is Screaming will happen NEXT chapter, probably.
> 
> Also, I do not know where things are in Ferelden and maps did not noticeably help, so I apologize that the geography is probably wonky.


	3. Prayers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With many thanks, as always, to [ObsidianMichi]() for immensely helpful course-correcting (and for letting me flail and whine). Thanks also to [emmadirthera](http://emmadirthera.tumblr.com/) for lore discussions and encouragement, and to [thepageoftarts](http://thepageoftarts.tumblr.com/) for being unbelievably kind and supportive, and [Aeris1172](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Aeris1172/pseuds/Aeris1172), whose comment on Chapter 2 made me realize I should go into more detail on the Blight.
> 
> I really appreciate all of your help! =D

The Blight is black as tar, and it feels similar - deep and dark. Things sink into it and die. It eats them. It’s _hungry_. She shivers and tucks her magic close, trying to pull farther away. How can it be this bad? The Blight in Ferelden was so brief that half of Thedas is still arguing over whether it even _happened_.

“I warned them,” Mythal muses, “that the threat was greater than they realized. Shocking how often people fail to heed such warnings.”

It rings like truth, like Mythal is making a deliberate show of honesty. Mythal won't expect loyalty and wouldn’t trust it if it were offered, but it costs nothing to give her a reminder that although Mythal does hold her leash, their goals are not fundamentally opposed. A reminder, too, that her cooperation and compliance are to her own benefit, because fighting Mythal now would be a waste of time and effort that both of them could turn to more productive ends.

Like saving the world. The stakes are too high, now, for a fight to be worthwhile. They won’t always be. Mythal probably has a plan for that, too… but that’s a problem for later.

She presses the skin of her knuckles against her lips and tries to think: Warnings. Plural.

Having finally seen, she thinks this might be why Mythal and Solas are both in such a hurry. This would be a large enough threat to merit haste. This is a cancer growing under the skin of the world, and it is going to kill them with or without Solas’s intervention. Trying to rescue what he thinks can be saved would fit much better with the man she knows than simply flinging an entire world’s worth of people onto the pyre to change things. He did that once already, on accident, and is still all but drowning in the guilt.

Mythal, in contrast, thinks they can save themselves. Wants them to do so - or at least to arrange things such that she gets partial credit if they succeed.

“Who did you warn?”

“The Grey Wardens,” Mythal says dryly. “Who else?”

And then all of the senior Wardens died at Ostagar; her warning was probably lost or ignored in the subsequent chaos. Inconvenient, but having that warning heeded obviously wasn’t Mythal’s primary goal at the time.

She keeps her eyes on the darkness.

Mythal took great pains to see to it that Urthemiel’s soul was rescued at the final battle of the Fifth Blight. ‘Snatched from the jaws of darkness,’ she said. It was done by Morrigan’s hand, but she did not seem to entirely understand why.

_You seek to preserve the powers that were, but to what end? It is because I taught you, girl._

Mythal has been planning this for a long, long time. Some of it must have been left to chance - most rituals have points of failure, and she left it to Morrigan rather than overseeing it herself. But it was important enough that she did send Morrigan.

_Things happened that were never meant to happen. She was betrayed as I was betrayed—as the world was betrayed!_

Whatever Mythal is planning, the full scope of the betrayal was more than her murder. Somehow Mythal’s murder echoed what was done to the world. Mythal was drawn to Flemeth because her suffering was another echo. Death and destruction, springing up from avarice, over and over again.

She tugs at that thought, lets it snag on things that have been separate but stored away;

Solas, always most honest when genuinely irritated, snapping, _the fools who first unleashed the Blight upon this world thought they were unlocking ultimate power._

Runes in the Deep Roads proclaiming, _she has struck down the pillars of the earth and rendered their demesne unto the People!_ More runes, added later, whispering, _what the Evanuris in their greed could unleash would end us all._ The shift in subject was notable, even then. And later, Solas told her that Mythal was murdered for standing in the way of the other Evanuris’ lust for power.

Valta’s words in closing, on a note about the Titan: _There is a loneliness to its song._

How many were lost? How many creatures that even the arrogant Evanuris would call ‘pillars of the earth’ could Thedas afford to lose? 

Is the Blight merely a symptom? Is the true problem something greater and still more dangerous?

Mythal pinches the bridge of her nose and sighs. Right. Fewer questions. Statements.

Archdemons are killed. That ends their Blight. It does not end _the_ Blight, however. The dwarves, when she asked for records on the darkspawn during the fight against Corypheus, told her outright that the creatures were growing in number even when the surface wasn’t under attack. That someday, Orzammar would fall and there would be nothing between the Blight metastasizing in the Deep Roads and the surface. Killing Old Gods does not solve that problem, and Solas thought it was no solution at all. Mythal thought, at the very least, that Urthemiel’s soul needed to be saved. It was her primary goal during the Fifth Blight. Why? 

She forces her face still, and tries to think quietly.

Corypheus said the Black City was Blighted before the Magisters broke in. Pieces of Elvhenan are scattered throughout the Fade. And the Evanuris unleashed something, before Solas locked them away and raised the Veil.

_Did we cause this?_

She needs to think about this more, all of it. She has few answers, and seemingly endless questions. For now, this much is obvious: They’ve wasted centuries fighting the most acute symptom of the Blight, but so far as she is aware, none of them know what’s causing the disease.

_I need to find out._

More intimidating but also more important; she needs to find some way to fix it. She doesn’t need to prove the world deserves to live. Solas knows that already. That’s why she’s been trying to find out what she’s arguing against. None of this made any sense, before.

He knows her world deserves to live. She needs to prove that it _can_.

“Have you worked something out?” Mythal inquires.

Several things. Most of them she’s not sure she should admit to. The Well tries to push truth out of her, and she wonders how obvious it will be if she’s less than forthcoming. She remembers Solas saying, agonized, that in drinking from the Well, she had become Mythal’s creature. That everything she did, from then on, would be in service of the Evanuris.

Maybe it’s like a headwind while sailing, though; maybe she just needs to be mindful if she beats to windward. She can’t work against Mythal directly, no, but there may be a degree of flexibility within the geas.

“We’ve been treating the symptoms, but not the disease,” she says. A small truth, to start. Mythal is inextricably bound up with justice in all of the mythology; her virtue, as she put it, would almost have to be justice, especially given her fixation on dispensing it to her traitorous kin. It seems probable that she can tell truth from lie just by the feel of them. Can she sense when a small truth is offered in place of a larger one, though?

Mythal smiles.

“You do not have all of the pieces, but you have apparently put together more than I would have expected.”

That’s… vague. It reveals nothing. Some prodding is in order.

“I generally only need to be told to open my eyes _once_ ,” she says, and channels a little of the unthinking self-confidence of a just-blooded hunter into it. It’s mostly in the set of the shoulders and the arrogant cock of the ears. The words are truth, and the Well accepts that, quiets in the back of her mind. The presentation is a lie, but it doesn’t seem like one she’s likely to be caught in.

Mythal chuckles.

“I wish you joy of your puzzle, child. Mind you don’t cut yourself on your own sharp wit.”

Well. That answers that question, at least, and before anything really dangerous has come up. Small mercies. Mythal knows, or at least suspects, when she tries to withhold things. The air around her still reads of nothing but faint amusement, though. No rebuke seems to be forthcoming.

Mythal… actually seems almost pleased.

“You have good instincts,” Mythal says, “and will improve with practice. A flexible approach to the truth may serve you well, particularly once Dirthamen wriggles free of his prison.”

She remembers snatches of frantic Veilfire whispers, eeling into her mind to translate themselves, speaking of secrets and dark rituals. _We disciples of Dirthamen know truth, now as ever._ She brushes the pads of her fingers over the places where the Secret-Keeper’s vallaslin used to curl over the arch of her cheekbone and feels a moment of weak-kneed relief that it’s gone.

Mythal’s eyes go distant and heavy-lidded; she looks like a cat basking in the sun - or a dragon, given the horns. There is a faint whisper in the air around her, one that sounds heartbreakingly familiar.

“Your mother,” Mythal says, in a voice that matches her abstracted gaze, “prays most earnestly for your safety.”

She blinks, thrown. Is that a warning? It feels like more of an explanation, and maybe it is; Mythal said that attending to prayers can provide strength. This would be an easy request to grant, given that she is a useful tool and Mythal would prefer to keep her around. Probably there's a significant amount of belief bound up in it, as well. Her mother was always the most devout member of the family; the one who really believed in the gods. Her father made all the correct observances, but his true faith was reserved for things he could touch, and her brother never seemed to have an opinion one way or the other.

Her mother believes, though. Of course she would ask the Great Protector to watch over her loved ones. Of course she would worry for the daughter still an ocean away from the safety of kin and clan.

The thought warms her.

Except—

“If the power of belief is in the world again,” she says slowly, “does that mean that when the changes to the Veil spread, it will be funneled into your kin when the People pray to them?”

Mythal hums. “Indeed.”

That seems like it _should_ be a subject of some concern. What is she missing?

“You don’t sound particularly worried about this.”

“Do I not? Perhaps I don’t. This is not the world they knew. I have chosen the terrain for this fight, girl, and it has been centuries in the making. I have spent millenia clawing my way up and making due. They will find me considerably less trusting than the woman they knew. And I very much doubt that even the cleverest of them would think to prepare for _you_.”

She’s to be the ace up the sleeve, then; the hidden dagger. Given who she’s going to be wielded against, she can’t really find it in herself to mind. The more she learns about the Evanuris, the more convinced she becomes that she’d have tried to topple them regardless of Mythal’s ability to compel her.

“They’ll prey on those who believe in them.”

They’ll feel underpowered. They’ll want to address it. Falon’din’s answer to a perceived shortfall of worship was going to war, and it seems perfectly plausible that all of the Evanuris will take variations on that approach when they break free.

“Oh, indubitably,” Mythal answers. “But the People will have your protection, will they not? Or did you intend to stand idly by?”

Of course she doesn’t. She couldn’t. But how is she supposed to protect all of Thedas - or even just the elves - against a whole pantheon of angry, vengeful creatures with godlike power? She can barely seem to access even the first part of her new power without being a danger to herself. How can she hope to use it to help anyone else?

“Not Curiosity, then,” Mythal muses, frowning. “You have not experimented to see what you can do.”

“I’ve been alone,” she points out. It’s dangerous to play with strange new magic with no oversight whatsoever. Mages who accept that fact have much higher overall life expectancy.

“Also,” she adds, “falling off of Ghileth’s back would have done a significant amount of damage, and it’s hard to heal your own concussions.”

Mythal lets out a single bark of laughter.

“Well, you aren’t alone now, girl; best learn how to listen, while you can. If your people can’t call upon you, they’ll be easy prey.”

Meaning Mythal will have bigger things to worry about, although perhaps that’s not surprising. She’s been preoccupied with murdering her family for eons, apparently, and hasn’t allotted much time to anything else.

“Even if I can hear someone call for me, how am I supposed to get to them?”

“The Wolf may think he’s restricted access to the Eluvians, but the truth is that they were never meant to keep our kind out. You’ll find that most paths cannot be closed against you if you truly wish to walk them. Now, be a good child and do as you’re told.”

Her eyes shut almost of their own accord and Mythal sighs, put-upon.

“You do not need to block out the world around you to hear them, girl. It’s better if you do not; it’s easier to lose yourself if you aren’t grounded. Just reach. Carefully. Pick a single strand, lift it from the skein. Don’t let it tangle, and don’t take more than one.”

It’s strangely easy, when she thinks of it like that. She doesn’t drop into it, keeps her eyes open, carefully plucks up one bright thought from the clamorous throng. It echoes strangely, like voices heard in the Fade;

_—protected us! The Maker would weep to see his children repay kindness this way. Herald of Andraste, you have shown how magic can serve; give me the words—_

Nearby. Not far. North. It tugs at her nearly as insistently as the geas.

“I need to—”

Mythal waves that away.

“Naturally. Remember to draw upon the voices of the Well, especially while you are learning to make use of your power. You have my leave to use whatever they will give you or you can wrest from them.”

The voices feel surprised, like there’s more to that, but it’s irrelevant right now. 

North.

She springs into Ghileth’s saddle, points him north.

“Thank you, All-Mother.”

Mythal laughs behind them as Ghileth springs into a gallop.

There’s a sudden change in pressure, and she glances over her shoulder to see a dragon launch itself into the sky and wheel away to the east. She pulls her eyes away, but gets a feeling of intense disquiet from the Well. She prods at the voices, and they tell her; Mythal took the same form, always. A dragon, yes.

But she never looked like that.

-=]|[=-

The scenery blurs past, and it takes a long moment for her to realize that it’s not natural speed. It’s magic. Not a consciously-cast spell, either. Her urgency seems to have given wings to Ghileth’s already swift hooves.

She’s not entirely sanguine with this realization. Unconscious magic is the province of small children with no control, or the emotionally compromised. She is neither, at present, in spite of the urgent pull tugging her north. The Well offers a quiet nudge of reassurance; it was not uncommon, they tell her, in the days of Elvhenan. Gods, especially, often bent the world to their will with little or no conscious intent to do so.

She knows spirits can mold the Fade. Perhaps it only makes sense that a mage, particularly a very powerful one, might find the world more malleable with the Fade bleeding in.

She still doesn’t like changing things without meaning to. Also—

 _I’m still not a god,_ she reminds them.

The Well feels dubious about her disclaiming any pretense to divinity, but she knows that she’s right. Idiots who think they deserve their power, who think it derives entirely from themselves and is no more than their right, are a dime a dozen throughout history. She won’t be one of them. These new powers are strange, and haven’t been seen in eons, but they don’t mean that she’s special. 

They mean people believe in her, and that’s all.

And oh, but she misses Solas keenly in that moment. He felt the same way.

_He takes no divine mantle and asks that none be bestowed upon him._

Having to correct everyone about that, not just the voices in her head, would be horrifying. She thought she understood, before, but as it turns out, being given a religious epithet is entirely different from hearing prayers and having your magic go rearranging the world around you without your conscious say-so.

She’s lucky, after a fashion; modern Thedas is so terrified of magic, even now, that she’s far more likely to inspire fear and mistrust than worship.

A laugh catches in her throat as she remembers how pleased Solas had been at her self-proclaimed atheism. Every time she learns something new, that makes more sense.

The Imperial Highway was built with magic, and even after so many centuries, the intact sections are perfectly level, perfectly straight. She nudges a little more speed into their progress, trying to get a feel for how the magic works. If this happens again, it will be deliberate.

It’s similar to the Fade-step Vivienne used to fly across a battlefield, she realizes. It pulls the Veil back, stretches and then releases it to physically impel them forward, but where Fade-step is like loosing an arrow - a single, sudden burst of force - this turns like a spinning wheel. It needs a constant, steady pressure from her, not a draw-and-release.

Which means that it’s burning through power like fire through a hayfield. That makes it all the more unsettling that she did it essentially on accident; she didn’t even notice the power draw until she looked. She could never have done this, before the Veil opened. Probably no one could.

A Magister, maybe, if they were willing to spend lives on it. She doesn’t doubt some of them have been; life is cheap in the Imperium. Given she may now be able to alter reality on accident, she tries very hard _not_ to indulge in her customary wish for Tevinter to fall into the sea. That may actually be something she will need to worry about, now.

She’s a little surprised that Ghileth is tolerating the spell so well. He has been trained for years to accept her casting from the saddle, but this is somewhat beyond the pale. She probably owes him an apple and a handful of oats, at the very least.

It isn’t long until a little village comes into view in the north, and the compulsion, or prayer, or whatever it was, loosens and lets her go with a surge of rightness.

That’s where she needs to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! And to everyone who comments, thank you so much for letting me know you like this fic. Your encouragement means the world to me!
> 
> It is entirely possible I have managed to miss a piece of vital information somewhere, but I finally got tired of combing through codex entries and tearing out my hair, so I am committing to this interpretation and I'm just going to run with it. The next chapter should (hopefully) be out faster; this one was magnificently difficult because I fretted the whole time that I was probably being Wrong About Lore.


	4. Faith

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With thanks to all of the kind souls who offer encouragement, and especially to [emmadirthera](http://emmadirthera.tumblr.com/) for helping me get this done.

The air reeks of sulfur and ozone. The Veil is even more porous, here, and the Fade is like a fast-flowing river, swollen with floodwaters and pouring over its banks; it’s inundating the village. She has her left hand half-raised before she remembers it won’t help.

She can’t stitch the Veil back together.

That doesn’t mean she can’t do something, though.

The smell and the flow of magic say ‘demons,’ but she doesn’t see them. Nor does she see any people. And it’s quiet.

Ghileth pulls his head up and snorts loudly, clearly even less pleased by the situation than she is. When she urges him forward, though, he goes.

She reaches for the her weapon, loosing the bindings and swinging it out into a cavalry hold. A staff seemed imprudent, while traveling alone in rural Ferelden. Instead, she carries a glaive. It is a wicked-looking weapon long enough to wield while mounted, one she made herself because everyone told her it couldn’t - or shouldn’t - be done.

The shattered Sulevin Blade could never be what it was. Solas said it was poisoned by its past, Dagna said that what was broken couldn’t be reforged. It didn’t need to be, though, for her purposes; she’s a mage, not a warrior. She doesn’t need a blade that can survive striking shields and armor. She needs something to channel power, and even in pieces, she could hear the blade singing with magic.

That other people thought the fragments were dangerous or useless meant nothing. The Sulevin Blade was a piece of the past, and she may not be Keeper of a clan, but all Dalish are keepers of the lost lore. She would no sooner discard the shattered Blade than set fire to her family’s aravel.

It’s a strange patchwork, now, weaving together the long-term, layered spells the Dalish use with Smith-Caste tricks for folding lyrium into old metal that Dagna remembered from her family’s forge, and adding the enchantments the Tranquil have always been renowned for. The Inquisition created a unique opportunity for three different schools of spell-smithing to come together, and the result is a hauntingly strange weapon that fought her like a living thing the first time she tried to use it.

She didn’t take it on missions for months, just practiced outside of Skyhold’s walls, trying to bleed off the anger trapped in the metal.

She never entirely succeeded; after two years, it still seethes with fury under her hands.

But it fights _with_ her, now, not against her. Wielding it, she can call lightning from a cloudless sky and turn the ground around her to slag for seven paces.

That will be helpful if there are still demons here - and there would almost have to be. Demons don’t just leave. She takes a deep breath.

_Stop walking with your eyes shut._

Mythal gave good advice; she looks, properly this time.

There were demons. There aren’t, now. There’s… something else, but it doesn’t alarm her new senses and it doesn’t alarm the voices of the Well, either. She starts to put her weapon away and then stops.

Because it looks different, too, with her eyes properly open.

It doesn’t just feel angry.

Cole, quiet in a memory, talking with Cassandra:

_Do you ever take off your armor and talk to it? It might say something nice._

It feels like the worst kind of waking - like the first stab of too-bright light when you’re underslept and still exhausted and the first thing you’re conscious of is the pounding of a dehydration headache and the scream of abused muscles.

“Take your time,” she murmurs, reaching with a soothing curl of magic.

The feeling she gets in response would be best characterized as a ‘harumph.’ She laughs a little.

She doesn’t put the glaive away, just urges Ghileth further into the village. She carries it point-down in her left hand. The shoulder will get tired, eventually, but for now, she wants to get used to the feeling. 

The Sulevin Blade is waking up. 

Sulevin. _Certainty._ She thinks of Conviction, back at the ruin. Thinks of spirits bound to objects. Of being warned, as a child, that anything in the Fade might be a person, even if it didn’t look like one.

That… might explain some things. Including why the Blade went wrong, when it was used in desperation, for dark things. 

_A spirit becomes a demon, when denied its original purpose._

It doesn’t feel like it’s a demon now. Hasn’t, for some time. 

It just feels grouchy.

Well. She’ll find out soon, one way or another.

Hopefully they’ll still get along once it’s awake.

-=]|[=-

She hears voices, finally. Mortal voices. That’s promising, although very strange. She wouldn’t have expected a farming community to fare well against a group of demons. And it’s obvious that there were several, not too long ago.

Then she and Ghileth round a building, and things make much more sense.

The humans didn’t fight the demons at all. Something else did. Apparently ‘having her eyes open’ now means she can see snatches of what was, the same way spirits can do from across the Veil.

Rage, and Hunger, fighting a spirit she doesn’t recognize on sight - which probably means one of the ‘good’ ones, at least. If she has seen it, it was unrecognizable when twisted out of true.

So the past-seeing is a property of the Fade itself, or maybe of magic, and not something unique to its denizens. Interesting. Not terribly pleasant, though. Her brain doesn’t like seeing the past and the present at the same time.

She blinks hard, thinks of here-and-now, and the double vision fades. Ghileth is apparently immune to this new weirdness; he continues making his way into the village, towards the narrow spire that must mark the Chantry.

“-protected us! The Maker would weep to see his children repay kindness this way.”

The words and the voice are familiar. This is the petitioner she heard, the words she heard. The Fade is weird, she reminds herself, and just like gravity isn’t a constant there, neither is time.

It is still deeply strange to hear a call for help, follow it for hours, and then arrive before it is voiced. Mythal broke reality, apparently. And yet it’s still less extreme than whatever Solas was planning.

Yes, she can see how his plan would have killed everyone. It wouldn’t have to be on purpose, it’d be like flipping gravity and expecting them to learn to fly. There’s only so much adaptation you can reasonably expect from people.

Which is probably why so many of the Ancients died, she reflects.

“It’s a demon!” someone else shouts, and that brings her back with a jolt.

It’s not. What she saw fighting must have won, and it’s clearly not trying to kill anyone or they wouldn’t be arguing over it.

She nudges Ghileth into a trot. The Sulevin Blade stirs, and she thinks at it, as firmly as she can, _we are not killing terrified villagers._

Another voice calls, “the strong ones are tricky. It’s manipulating you!”

She hears the rest of the petition as she picks her way closer;

_Herald of Andraste, you have shown how magic can serve; give me the words to dispel their fear…_

“It _saved_ us from the demons,” pleads the first voice, the petitioner. She follows the sounds, rounds the corner, and sees a very strange tableau. There is a Chantry Sister standing before the glowing spirit she saw in the recent-past vision, arms spread like she can hold back the agitated crowd with force of will alone.

And she can tell what the spirit is, now, seeing it in person. Faith. 

Well, she was asked for words, and you don’t spend three years leading an army of the faithful without picking a few things up.

“‘Those who bring harm/Without provocation to the least of His children/Are hated and accursed by the Maker.’ Have you been provoked?”

A fair portion of the crowd rounds on her. It’s lucky, she reflects, that she’s spent so much time around crowds of armed humans. Four years ago, this would have sent her scrambling into the wilderness as fast as Ghileth could carry her. Then again, four years ago, this wouldn’t have involved her at all; she’d have had the sense to keep her distance.

_I am not going to live to get old. It’s very tragic._

She probably should have waited to speak until she had drawn even with her petitioner and Faith. This angry, frightened crowd seems very likely to evolve into a mob.

She nudges Ghileth to skirt the edges, put them closer to the Sister and the spirit.

One man pushes forward through the crowd, trying to bar her progress. Stupid.

Ghileth lowers his rack and bugles a warning.

The man pales, but he doesn’t give ground. Brave. And also stupid. That’s always a good combination.

“We don’t need some crazy knife-ear butting in, here,” he blusters.

Oh, even better. Brave, stupid, and _racist_.

Fantastic.

She looks down at him. She is holding a glaive. She is riding a hart. He is holding a pitchfork, which has much less range, and she could probably strike him with lightning before he could take another step.

It’d hit at least four other people in the crowd, and she won’t, but she _could_. Do humans never tell stories about how it pays to be polite to strangers? 

Well, if they do, he clearly hasn’t heard them.

He continues, demanding, “who do you think you are?”

“‘Some crazy knife-ear,’ obviously,” she answers dryly. “One who knows the Chant better than you.”

The Sister bites back a slightly hysterical giggle, and while the man is trying to work out how to respond, she pushes Ghileth into a quick bound; it’s an escape maneuver, something only a war-trained mount could execute on command. A warning, if any of these people have the training or the sense to recognize it.

She glances over the crowd, and - no dice. It was so much easier to intimidate people out of a confrontation when they knew who she was. The Inquisitor was frightening, even with all the good the Inquisition did; she was powerful, she had armies and allies and terrifying magic at her command. A lone elf, though? She has no vallaslin, and most non-Dalish elves prefer deference to the inevitable costs of defiance. 

She’s armed, and mounted, and not cowed, but they haven’t put that together and come up with ‘potential threat.’

It might be best that they don’t recognize her, she realizes. Fear is already roiling off this crowd like steam. With the way the Fade-currents are flowing through, that’s liable attract something unpleasant.

She holds out her normal hand, keeps her weapon lowered;

“You need to try to remain calm. Fear and anger will attract more of them.”

“How do you know that?” The man from before, squaring his shoulders.

… Shit. She’s so used to being able to speak with authority about magic that she has marched herself in front of a shemlen mob with no credentials and no title and started talking about demons.

She is an idiot.

She’s also feeling a sudden surge of sympathy for Solas, because she knows he’s done the exact same thing.

“I served the Inquisition,” she tries. Pushes honesty into it, because it’s true, even if that truth is portioned sparingly. 

They wouldn’t believe her if she told the whole truth.

Some of them do relax a fraction. Some of the fear simmers down.

Not enough of it, though, and her interrogator just seems to get more riled.

That, or he hates elves too much to back down.

“Inquisition’s been disbanded,” he sneers. “Just your word on that, and it doesn’t tell us who you’re working for now, OR why you came marching in here to protect that demon.”

She feels a little flare of temper.

“Faith is a spirit, not a demon. It protected you.”

“And now it’s manipulating Sister Alis. Everyone knows the worst ones don’t kill you straight-on.”

He’s not wrong about that. She takes a deep breath, lets it out. Calm. Work with them, not against them. She thinks of Josephine, of Deshanna, of every bit of training she’s ever had in diplomacy.

_Guidance,_ she reminds herself, _not dictation._

“Yes,” she agrees. She waits to see if that will take root, get the man to relax at all. He does, albeit almost imperceptibly; if she weren’t tuned in to the emotional currents of the crowd through the flow of the Fade, she’d never notice.

“You’re right that the most dangerous and most clever hostile spirits rarely attack directly. They turn your strengths against you. Has Faith done aught to make you suspect this is the case?”

“It said something to the Sister, when it got here.”

“Ah. Before or after it dispensed with…” she inhales, testing the air again, and reaches out more with her magic.

“…Hunger?” 

“How d’you know what they are? Were,” he corrects.

“What do you think the Inquisition did, sat around twiddling their thumbs and waiting for the rifts to close _themselves_? I’ve seen them before.”

“Didn’t see these.”

She waves a hand at the village.

“Everything reeks of demons. Can’t your hunters recognize game based on the signs it leaves?”

He’s on the fence, but the rest of them aren’t nearly so skittish, now. She starts to relax.

Which is, of course, when everything goes straight to hell.

She has a half-heartbeat of warning, feels something coming, but it’s not enough for her to do more than get her glaive’s point up.

Three Terrors - two lesser, one greater - come screaming into existence, and she curses. She kept her weapon down trying to lower tensions, and now people are going to die because she was stupid and careless.

_No,_ she thinks, feels it echo under her hands. The demons hang in the air for a long moment, acclimating to the differences on this side of the Veil, knowing the force of their combined shrieks will keep their prey stunned.

It would - it works on all the humans, works on Ghileth, who is frozen under her, trembling. It all but slides off her, though, and she feels her new power bubbling up like a spring, washing away the last of the paralyzing hold.

She yells, raises the blade of her glaive, and feels it surge. She’s calling lightning. The Sulevin Blade is calling something more than that.

The result is a thunderclap that knocks the nearest members of the crowd off their feet and flings the suspended demons aside like toys. 

“ _You will have no victory here,_ ” she snarls at the largest demon as it straightens, realizing only after it’s out of her mouth that she spoke Elvhen.

… She’s not actually fluent in Elvhen.

That train of thought is not currently a productive use of her time.

The demon hisses back at her, and she can barley parse the sibilant noises as language, but the Well can, and does.

“ _Too slow, little cousin. Too slow to stop everything._ ”

Ghileth stops shaking.

“I guess I’ll have to be faster, then.”

She cues Ghileth before she finishes speaking and summons a concussive bolt, launches it at the fastest part of a bound. They’ve practiced this. The spell is strong when she launches it from a standstill. With the added force of a hart’s charge, it’s… messy.

The demon strikes the Chantry’s exterior wall with a gut-churning, wet noise. The stones shiver, but hold. The attenuated limbs shake, then still.

Down for the count, her new senses tell her, though it might not fragment.

She turns.

Faith is whistling angrily, trying to keep the other two demons well away from the crowd.

The Sister - Alis, the man called her - shouts and tries to bludgeon one of the demons with a long iron candelabra that must be part of the Chantry’s decor. She misses. One of the candles launches off, however, and smacks the creature upside the head.

She takes a few more swings with her unweildy improvised staff.

“…no fear… for the Maker… beacon and her shield…”

The woman is attacking a demon with a candelabra and she’s quoting Transfigurations. Of course. Why not?

This is probably why the Andrasteans say their Maker looks after fools.

Faith flares brighter, though, in response, and surges towards the demon Alis is engaging.

_Leaving the other for me._

The Terror, when she focuses on it, hisses. The ground below it glows, ripples.

Shit.

‘Keep knocking things down’ isn’t strategy. Cullen would be so ashamed of her. No tactics to speak of.

Better than nothing, though. She pushes Ghileth into another charge. A shoulder-check from a war-hart is not gentle. Terrors aren’t small, but the forms they take look like they’re made of bundles of sticks. On this side of the Veil, appearance and structural integrity are related.

Which means when this demon tries to stop a charging hart with one arm, that arm does not survive the experience.

The demon screams again, knocked back out of the transfer. It stays on the near side of the Veil.

Ghileth is going too fast to allow for a secondary attack, so she overshoots into the street and comes about.

_Strike,_ a voice insists in her head, the point of her glaive pulled forward like iron to a lodestone.

That is a horrible idea. Everyone has told her (some more than once) that actually using the bladed end of her weapon will break it back into pieces.

_STRIKE, _it insists, and - no time. They’re on the demon. She swings the blade around and buries it in the thing’s midsection.__

__It glows bright Fade-touched green and then -_ _

__\- seems to grab her glaive _yank_ , the force enough to pull her tumbling from the saddle._ _

__It folds in, and in, and in again, and then it’s gone. Sucked down to a single point and then whisked out of existence so fast that the air pops._ _

__What?_ _

__She climbs to her feet. Shakes her head. Later. She looks for the third demon, which - Faith seems to have impaled on a bright blade of something that may or may not actually be one of its arms._ _

__This last one fragments the way she’s used to; breaks into bright motes that hover in the air._ _

__She never quite knew what happened, before. Solas said something new might grow, and she can feel the stirrings of possibility, now. Of life._ _

__They’re _seeds_._ _

__She moves forward and reaches out to touch, the impulse too strong to deny._ _

__She feels them change as she touches them, and - oh. _Oh.__ _

__The possibilities are dizzying, incredible. These are tiny spirits. They could be anything, although the foundation is formed by what they were._ _

__She’s awed, though. Awe is kin to terror, close enough that the shift is like flipping over a card. These wisps - they are wisps, now, she’s given them something to cling to, something to form around - aren’t going to be terror at all._ _

__She almost laughs._ _

__Then Faith makes another alarmed noise, and she turns, and -_ _

__“Get inside the Chantry.”_ _

__Sister Alis and Faith don’t move._ _

__“NOW,” she snaps._ _

__Alis bolts, Faith flying at her heels._ _

__She backs away from the crowd, which is mustering will and turning into just what she feared; a mob._ _

___Kill them,_ the Well suggests, dismissive. She could. It would be easy._ _

__It would be monstrous._ _

__Almost too faint to hear, the Sulevin Blade whispers, pleads,_ _

___Not again._ _ _

__And that, she agrees with._ _

__“Don’t do this,” she says, tries to project it to carry, but she can already tell, she can taste it in the air. They don’t want to listen. They aren’t going to hear. They’re tired of being frightened, and she’s something they know they can kill._ _

__They might be wrong about that. She’s not sure._ _

__She doesn’t want to find out._ _

__“Come!” she yells to Ghileth, who bounds across the threshold just ahead of her._ _

__She slams heavy-beamed doors shut with raw power, slaps her palms against the wood; the spell pours out of her, half-instinct and the rest guided by the Well, gold light surging up and out, across the jamb, the walls, the windows._ _

__The shouting cuts off, abruptly silenced, and she sags against the door. She rests her forehead against the old wood and sighs._ _

__Safe enough, for the moment._ _

__But they’re also trapped._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, some screaming! Next chapter, we return to my usual fare of 'everyone talks a lot and is sad.'
> 
> Thank you for reading! To everyone who leaves comments or kudos, I really appreciate your encouragement. It keeps me going! <3


	5. Mantles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took much longer than it should have due to a combination of real life (job, health crap, me being a disaster) and other fandoms eating my brain. Thank you all for sticking out the wait!
> 
> Standard chapter-break tension at the end, although it's probably only a 2 on the cliffhanger scale.

She turns away from the door and it’s startling how familiar everything is. Chantries are all kin to one another, it seems. Though Ferelden buildings in general tends towards solid functionality, the Chantries are still designed to let in light. Here, there’s a lovely use of clerestory windows that almost reminds her of her people’s architecture, as seen in ruins. The apse contains the usual statue of their martyred prophet, with the customary sacred flame. She’s been told that such flames are very occasionally, in a conspicuous display of affluence and power, kept lit by magic.

It would make substantially more sense than continuously burning lamp oil or candles. It’s been three years, and she’s still occasionally struck by how bizarrely and determinedly primitive some aspects of human society really are. No healing. No ice magic to keep food from spoiling or chill drinks in summer. They can have hot baths in winter, but not without a truly unconscionable amount of work. Even the nobility, by and large, do without such luxuries.

And all of this is accepted as unremarkable, even though the remedy is simplicity itself. She shakes her head, shakes that off.

_Don’t mend sails when the wheels want fixing,_ she reminds herself. The world has bigger problems than human culture’s many and varied idiosyncratic cruelties, and she already knows what comes of trying to fix _those_.

She wishes Vivienne joy of the Game, but for herself? She is not going to miss playing politics.

This is a simple village Chantry, so it takes her a moment to understand what she’s seeing. There shouldn’t be any magic here save what she brought with her. But when she really looks, reminds herself to open her new senses, she can see bright streams of faith pouring into this place, gathering into a tiny sun of power at the center. She could reach out and touch it.

On the heels of that realization is another: She could reach out and _take_ it.

_You are one of their gods,_ the Well encourages. _The power they offer, by rights, belongs to you._

_No._

She looks past the brightness of that power and up into Andraste’s face. Not for the first time, she wonders what the woman was like. The statues are all alike, in their impersonal beauty. The real woman can’t have looked like that. If Vivienne didn’t look that perfect after two days on the road to Adamant with an army, no one could.

Who might Andraste have been, before myth and legend got hold of her? Before hundreds of years of other people’s agendas took her story away from her? She worried about those questions more and more, as the Inquisition grew and the stories took on a life of their own.

Well, it would be nice to know the paths others walked before her, but she can find a trail with or without that knowledge.

She isn’t a god and won’t pretend to be. She wasn’t the Herald of Andraste, either. If she denies divinity long enough and loud enough, the voices of the Well will find another name for her, the same way the rest of Thedas did.

She never minded being called Inquisitor. That wasn’t more than mortal hands could hold. Ameridan was an amazing man, a hero, and an inspiration, but he was a man. And he was right when he said that the job demanded everything. 

_Took_ everything.

Being more than mortal demands more than she has to give. More than anyone has to give.

_I can’t be bigger than myself, Varric. ___

__She’ll do her best, she always has, but a person cannot simply decide to be a god._ _

__Or maybe they can. The Evanuris did. Corypheus did. But it’s ugly and wrong, and she can’t see any way it could ever be otherwise._ _

__She’s never going to be comfortable claiming divinity. She’d never _want_ to be._ _

__Faith drifts nearer to her._ _

__“You are a locus of energies,” it suggests in an alien, musical voice._ _

__That is… much less uncomfortable than the idea of taking up godhood like it’s just another pretty ceremonial title, lightly worn. She has been a locus of energies from the moment her magic manifested when she was nine years old. The most important part of a Keeper’s strength derives from and belongs to the Clan._ _

__She looks again at the shimmering, silvery light of this village’s faith; it’s not a spirit, has no will of its own. It is a reservoir of power, long-tended and nurtured and bright._ _

__But it isn’t hers._ _

__They’re good people, to have made such a thing. They’re good people, and this belongs first and foremost to them._ _

___Do I need to use this power to keep us safe?_ she asks the Well._ _

__There’s a tension, roiling dissent, a distant, fragmented muttering as the voices fail to reach a consensus._ _

__She hasn’t had this much trouble hearing them in months. They may never have been this fragmented._ _

__“You believe they are individuals,” Faith murmurs. “It reminds them that they once were.”_ _

__“That’s good,” she says, because it is - she’s still uncomfortable with the idea that the voices, however many of them there truly are, were bound to eternal servitude. Eternity is too long a time to swear yourself to anything._ _

__Especially if what you’re swearing yourself to isn’t itself eternal. Mythal might be hard to kill, but she can be. She nearly was, maybe more than once._ _

__So she’s glad they’re remembering themselves, maybe regaining themselves. But…_ _

__“It does present certain difficulties in getting good advice.”_ _

__“What are you two talking about?”_ _

__Sister Alis is looking between her and the spirit, her face rather alarmingly pale. Was she wounded?_ _

__“Are you alright? Do you need healing?”_ _

__It’s not the skill she’s had most cause to practice - the Inquisitor was a symbol, and that meant fighting at the front where people could see her and be inspired by her presence, not keeping back and tending the wounded. She did rotations in the clinic when she was at Skyhold, though, just like most of the senior mages did. Learning to heal was as much a matter of practicality as of conscience; the ability to bend reality might have plentiful peacetime applications, but the average person finds a healer a more comfortable companion than a war-mage._ _

__Being both means you can lay claim to just the one that puts people at ease without it being a lie._ _

__So when she sees Alis’s bloodless face, she stretches out with a simple diagnostic almost on instinct; she doesn’t see any damage, though._ _

__Alis tries to smile. She doesn’t meet with much success._ _

__“Oh, I’m fine,” Alis says. “Only I’m wondering if either or both of you are going to kill me or possess me or turn me inside out.”_ _

__She blinks. That’s… not what she was expecting._ _

__“You seemed quite certain of Faith’s good intentions before.”_ _

__Alis shrugs, the motion jerky with nerves._ _

__“It saved me. And Ewan’s oldest girl, Mia. And also Mia’s very ugly cat. I wasn’t sure of its intentions, I just didn’t think it deserved to… die, or whatever happens to spirits. It helped.” She straightens her spine and raises her chin and it’s suddenly very obvious that she may be tall, even for a human, but she’s still terribly young. “Nothing deserves to get hurt for helping.”_ _

__She can’t help smiling back at that. Happily, it seems to help. Alis relaxes a hair and her smile steadies somewhat._ _

__“I think a friend of mine would like you,” she muses._ _

__“Yes,” Faith agrees._ _

__“You know Cole?”_ _

__She’s not sure she’s willing to buy that much of a coincidence. The Fade is many things, but it is not _small_._ _

__Faith shifts in a way that is absolutely nothing like a head-shake, but nonetheless clearly conveys a ‘no.’_ _

__“Your faith in him is not misplaced,” it says. Which is… something like an answer, she supposes._ _

__Right. ‘This shit is weird.’ _Thank you, Varric, for giving me so neatly summarizing my life.__ _

__Alis is studying her._ _

__“You think it’s strange, too,” Alis says, in the tone of someone who’s realized something surprising. Why finding this entire mess odd should be at all surprising, she isn’t sure. “Why are you so calm?”_ _

__“I served the Inquisition,” she says again. “We didn’t just fight spirits that’d been twisted by the rifts.”_ _

__“What do you mean?” Alis seems curious almost in spite of herself. She maintains a cautious distance, but she’s leaning forward, now._ _

__“Did that not make it into the tales? One of the Inquisitor’s closest companions was a Spirit of Compassion.” And then she grins, because Professor Kenric hasn’t published yet and this bit might be too salacious for publication even when he does: “So was one of Inquisitor Ameridan’s, although I’m not entirely sure what kind. The surviving records weren’t terribly clear, even the really weird ones.”_ _

__Alis gasps and apparently forgets to be nervous. She steps closer and asks,_ _

__“Did you ever meet her?”_ _

__She frowns._ _

__Ameridan was dead - or, well, not dead, but Alis couldn’t know that - and a man. Cole is boy-shaped. She’s not sure what kind of spirit Ameridan’s companion was, let alone what pronouns it preferred._ _

__So,_ _

__“Who-?”_ _

__“The Inquisitor, obviously!” Alis says it with more than a touch of asperity, and she can’t help the giggle that bubbles out of her. It washes away an incredible amount of stress, and she relaxes into the feeling. Some of the tension comes back when she sees how her own relaxation seems to have affected both Alis and Faith - Alis is magic-blind, of course, but her mood is still taking color from the cloud of feeling released in that moment of relieved inattention._ _

___Oh dear._ _ _

__Alis is still looking at her expectantly._ _

__“We were never exactly introduced,” she starts, schooling her face to stillness. Alis’s face falls, and she can’t hold back the giggles, even if she does manage to contain the emotional waves this time. She holds up her sylvanwood hand. It’s obvious, at this range and without distractions, that it’s not made of flesh. “But then, we didn’t really need to be.”_ _

__Alis goggles at her._ _

__“You’re saying - you’re - that’s impossible. You’re having me on.”_ _

__Alis crosses her arms and frowns, trying to look stern._ _

__She laughs again._ _

__“I very much doubt you’ll find a lot of bare-faced Dalish mages running around without their left arms, but it makes no odds to me whether you believe me or not. I’m not the Inquisitor NOW, either way, because - as that very angry man outside so astutely pointed out - the Inquisition has been disbanded.”_ _

__“Because you disbanded it.”_ _

__Alis studies her through narrowed eyes; this isn’t belief, but she wants to hear an explanation, even if it’s just a story._ _

__“Did the reasons not come along with the news?”_ _

__She’s never sure what people will choose to repeat. Maybe her reasons weren’t important enough to spread._ _

__That’s kind of depressing, really. At least she’s alive to correct the stories. That’s something._ _

__“Some people said it was because the Inquisitor was injured. Or because Orlais and Ferelden insulted her. Or because stepping down was the only way to save her lover.”_ _

__Grains of truth, then, but nothing like a clear picture._ _

__She sighs, tries to roll some of the vexed tension out of her shoulders._ _

__“Yes, that’s about as accurate as I’d generally expect hearsay to be.”_ _

__“And the truth is..?”_ _

__Challenging, now. A normal human, finding herself trapped in here with a possibly-mad heathen mage and a spirit… and Alis is annoyed that she’s not being more forthcoming._ _

__If the Inquisition still existed, she’d be asking Alis to join it._ _

__“The truth is complicated. And long. No one ever makes a decision for only one reason.”_ _

__“Some of the truth, then.” More insistent, now._ _

__She really does want to offer this girl a job. She’ll have to mention her to Leliana. Leliana will have a job to give her. A promotion, at least, since she already works for the Chantry._ _

__And the girl may well need to get out of this town, in the end. May need to leave, just because she felt compelled to help rather than stand by._ _

__The truth seems little enough to offer, when Alis might be giving up the only life she’s ever known._ _

__“The _truth_ is that I very nearly died and Ferelden would have been happier if I had. The _truth_ is that Orlais wanted me on a leash, which I imagine your countrymen can sympathize with even if your nobles do not. I wanted my people to be able to go home with their reputations intact… and I was tired.” And hurt, and heartsick._ _

__“And the last rumor?”_ _

__“Is somehow both more accurate than I’d like and so laughably simplified as to bear no resemblance to reality. Another funny thing about rumors. But that part is personal, and even my friends don’t believe more than half of it, so I think I’ll keep what little of it is mine private, if you don’t mind. I’m very glad I get to go back to being anonymous, soon. It’s just turning out to have an adjustment period while I remember that I can’t keep trying to fix everything.”_ _

__“If it’s all the same to you, my lady, I’m glad you did try to fix this. I don’t think it would have gone well for me or Faith if you hadn’t intervened.”_ _

__Probably not. The prayer was compelling, loud. It probably would have been quieter if things hadn’t been urgent._ _

__That’s too bizarre to say out loud even to a very tolerant sort of clergywoman, though._ _

__She sighs, the weight of the day suddenly falling on her like a toppling giant. She bows under it, just a little, and Alis straightens._ _

__“Forgive me, my lady, you must be exhausted. The Chantry would be glad to offer you hospitality.”_ _

__Food. Rest. It can’t have been that long since she had either, and yet she is desperate for both._ _

__“Please. And - thank you, Sister Alis. For everything.”_ _

__The girl half-smiles, and leads her through a series of hallways to a tiny dormitory - simple and sparse, but clean._ _

__“Um,” Alis says, as she drops her pack at the end of one cot. “About your… elk?”_ _

__“Hart,” she corrects absently. “Don’t worry, he’s no more likely to make a mess indoors than a mabari would be.”_ _

__“Oh! No, I meant - we don’t have any hay, but there’s carrots in the root cellar. And a few apples I was going to roast.”_ _

__“Give him any or all of that, and he will be your devoted friend. Oats will work, too, if you’ve any by for porridge, but not more than a few cups.”_ _

__She lowers herself onto the edge of the cot, and it’s all she can do not to topple into the bedding._ _

___So tired. Where is this coming from?_ _ _

__“Get some rest,” Alis murmurs, “I’ll see to your friend.”_ _

__“Ma serannas,” she mumbles, and only realizes what she’s said when Alis replies with a halting,_ _

__“Ma nu..vee-nahn?”_ _

__She smiles._ _

__“Josephine did that, too. Thank you.”_ _

__Alis startles visibly at that - of course, it probably is a bit jarring for a village Sister to find herself compared to Lady Ambassador Josephine Montilliet. Ah, well. She’ll explain in the morning about a frightened girl, far from home, being offered a welcome in her own language._ _

__Alis doesn’t say anything else, just slips out the door. She’s expecting sleep to come easily, but in spite of the weight in her limbs and the worn-through feeling of exhaustion, it eludes her. The small room’s utter silence presses down on her until she tries to physically curl away from it._ _

__She’s never liked stone walls. Usually there’s a window to open out onto some kind of noise, but the enchantment she settled over this place cut off the sound of the wind and the quiet rush of water and the singing of crickets. She’s had time to get used to living the way she should, again - hearing the world around her and needing to protect herself._ _

__She levers herself upright again, settles simple wards into the walls, the floor. When she’s done, the silence leans close again, and she remembers the birdsong cantrip from the ruin._ _

__It can’t hurt._ _

__She traces the rune onto a flat gray stone at shoulder height, watches it flare and then dim into invisibility._ _

__The air fills with quiet calls and the distant sound of wings._ _

__This time, her head has but to hit the pillow before she’s under, tumbling headlong into the Fade._ _

____

-=]|[=-

She still hears birdsong on the other side. And voices.

She looks around and thinks,

_Oh, hell._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still haven't gotten to blow anything up, but now we're heading into the Fade. I give myself much better odds on finally achieving ruin and disaster in dreamland. 
> 
> As always, a thousand thanks to everyone who reads, leaves kudos, and especially my commenters - you guys keep me going!


	6. Mystery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At a certain point, one simply has to post a chapter and move on. I am fairly sure I actually hit that point two months ago, so I'm making myself put this up before I go to bed.

For all its simplicity, the spell in the runes shows itself to be… not a cantrip. It’s a lever; a small application of power to effect considerable change. 

She’s thrown a stone into a pond; the Fade is rippling all around her. She's perceiving it as song on this side, too, but it's magic; of course it's musical. It's more tuneful, in the Fade, and so strangely familiar that it itches her brain. She wants to sing along, stabilize the curve into a wave she can ride rather than a current bobbing her brain along like a cork, but doesn't know the sequence - the melody - well enough to do so.

Small consolation; the Well feels even more confused than she does.

The impressions the Fade normally holds, the echoes - those are disrupted by what she’s done. The ripples break up the image until it’s incoherent and all that exists is the present moment. That’s actually more comfortable for her. She’s accustomed to a world where the present is… well, ‘present.’ Where the past is history and the future is hope and neither are things she experiences with physical immediacy.

The Fade doesn’t work that way, and apparently making it do so is -

“Unnatural," an unfamiliar voice snaps, breaking around the word like it's been screamed hoarse. There's no concession to the apparent strain in the volume, however; it's near to shouting.

“Unusual,” Faith replies, serene and sure.

"It must be fixed.”

"No.” Still soft and unshakably certain.

"The cantrip?" she wonders aloud, turning so she can see the speakers. There doesn’t seem to be a physical manifestation of the spell, on this side of the Veil. Ripples, but no source. 

She gets a feel for the rhythm, finally, and sways with it. That helps. It’s like the spell pulls the Veil in around them in waves, bringing a little more grounding to this side, and she’s getting her sea legs.

Fascinating. She wonders if that might be something she could use; it’s clearly rift magic, albeit not the make-do, experimental kind she’s familiar with using.

It is familiar, though.

Solas, she thinks, and just like that everything snaps. She stops swaying. The magic flows around her, but she doesn’t need to move to feel the tidal pull of it. She hums quietly, raising one hand - not necessary, here, but it helps ground a soul accustomed to mediating such magic through a physical body.

It amplifies the waves, but slows their frequency and creates a center of stillness around her. The force is still there, but it stops buffeting them, here at the center. The lacuna.

The eye of the storm.

Faith and the other spirit regard her with the heavy, unblinking stares of beings with no real concept of time or socially-acceptable intervals for eye contact. She inclines her head in a nod of acknowledgement without looking away; the new spirit isn’t familiar but it always pays to be polite, and never more than on this side of the Veil.

That may begin applying to the waking world, soon. Hopefully she'll manage to get warnings out fast enough to avoid any really gruesome folktale comeuppances.

It’s possible a few people caught up in such a thing would deserve it, but she can’t fool herself there wouldn’t be just as many innocent victims and maybe (probably) more.

Faith returns her nod of acknowledgment with a strangely sinuous motion that has all the practiced grace of an Orlesian courtier offering an obeisance to the Empress. The other spirit glides closer. It's beautiful - mostly the color of tarnished silver run through with glowing veins of light, crowned with shining, antler-like branches over an entirely alien face. It blinks nine symmetrically arrayed black eyes that refract the light back in an impossible rainbow of colors. The rest of its face continues with only the vague suggestion of features until it comes to a sharply pointed chin.

She shakes herself and looks again, _properly_ this time.

It feels like a thunderstorm - she can taste ozone in the back of her throat - and simmers just under the surface with crackling fury. Not Rage, though; even if it’s appearance didn’t tell her so, the feeling riddles the spirit like stress fractures, decidedly Other, a remnant of past damage. It’s not pain anymore.

She knows this feeling, from long months struggling with it until it turned against her enemies instead of fighting her.

"Certainty," she greets, feeling friendly familiarity sink into the word. "Thank you for your help, earlier."

She wonders if it will appreciate being thanked. Cole sometimes didn’t, especially after he erased some of what had made him human-like, and Compassion often elicits gratitude; they're connected, as these things go. Certainty isn't a warm feeling, and the spirit of the Sulevin Blade is not a friendly spirit. Perhaps it never was. But it existed among mortals for a long time, and among their immortal ancestors for even longer before that. It will understand, at least, even if it finds the sentiment useless.

"Lady Wielder," it replies. "Thank you for the meal."

It... smiles, or something like; the little slash of a mouth stretches wide until it nearly splits the face in half. It is very, very full of sharp, narrow teeth.

The smile closes up and the face looks smooth and featureless again. She finds herself keenly glad of it. Certainty continues,

"And for cleaving to your truth, as well."

She remembers a sick swoop of desperation layered over her own revulsion and rejection when the Well suggested killing the villagers.

She keeps her own mouth closed; she nearly grins on instinct (reassurance, agreement, alliance), but restrains it to a polite curl of her mouth. Probably her blunt teeth don't look nearly as unsettling to a denizen of the Fade as Certainty's do to her. Still; manners.

And maybe if she models closed-mouth smiles, Certainty will pick them up for itself, and she won’t have to swallow down a cold flash of fear when it’s being friendly. 

If it’s being friendly.

It’s hard to tell, sometimes, with the cooler-sparked spirits.

Faith has been hovering quietly, but now its head snaps up and away, towards where the birdsong is thickest.

"Another locus comes," it announces.

Locus?

That was what Faith called **her**. If it's something like her, and it's not Mythal - Blight it. She reaches for her weapon on instinct before remembering that Certainty is right in front of her, and is not currently a glaive.

Certainty sees the gesture and glides a half-step closer.

"Too late to destroy the trailhead, now. Ally or armament?" it asks.

"Ally," she says without thinking. Reconsiders, when Certainty takes up a guard position just in front of her and Faith darts over to join it. She feels ridiculous with them guarding her like some decorative human noble, more willing to sacrifice the lives of those who serve them than risk damage to their wardrobe.

She had an army, briefly, and her clan before that - any of either group would have died to protect her. But she’s never asked anyone to fight on her behalf when she wasn’t willing to step forward with them.

She flexes her hands and flows into a ready stance, strange as it is to take one up unarmed. She doesn’t truly need a weapon; she _is_ a weapon.

Sparks shiver over her fingers, and she flicks them away, annoyed.

She hasn't had such a problem with control since she was a child. Then again, she's never been brim-full of other people’s faith in an altered version of the Fade, either. The rules she's used to only half-apply.

The person who appears does so with no fuss or fanfare, so incredibly unremarkable that the Well is the first to notice them.

_Enemy,_ one voice hisses. _Traitor,_ growls another.

_Unhelpful,_ she tells them. _Do you have a name of some kind that I could use?_

_Shadow-fledged,_ suggests one voice, younger and clearer than the first two.

_Thank you,_ she tells it.

The figure stands straight and still, heavily veiled in layers that move more like smoke than cloth and seem to eat color and light. Somehow the visual element of their presence fades into the birdsong, using the sound like camouflage.

Was this what the world was like, when Waking and Dreaming were one? The two realms were distinct, according to all the records and accounts she’s ever seen, but things must have been wildly different, even so. Anyone accustomed to the presence of the Veil would find it terrifying and upsetting and deadly.

Much the way their ancestors found the world when the Veil was raised. It’s coming down, now, and it’s going to be the end of her world even if by some miracle she succeeds and Solas doesn’t unmake it entirely.

_A journey is made of individual steps,_ she reminds herself. _Focus._

"Andaran atish’an, Telgara,” she says, trying to keep her voice neutral.

The figure laughs, veils trembling and eddying around - her. It has to be a woman, with a voice like that. There are still notes of that amusement in her tone when she replies,

"I come in peace, Firefly."

It’s the liquid spill of elven, but she speaks in meaning more than sound. Mythal and Solas do the same thing, here in the Fade. It’s a tell. Or it would be, if Faith hadn't already described her as a locus.

It makes her wonder. Does she sound like that, too, now? The thought is more than a little unsettling. She's already letting things slip just by thinking too loudly, if Mythal is to be believed.

But then, there are other ways to look for the upper hand, now, than simply being better-armed with knowledge. Rites of petition. Respect demanded. Ritual and worship.

It might not work - probably won’t, with someone who knows this game better than she does - but it's worth a try.

"What aid do you seek, Shadow?"

Another laugh, louder and more full-throated. More sincere, possibly.

“Quick-learning quickling! But I do not come before you as a petitioner. You have issued an invitation and I have accepted, that I might offer a trade. Now… we negotiate, as you have bought us some small bit of privacy. None will know what we speak of, so we may be as forthcoming as our natures permit."

As their natures permit. So Shadow is probably not direct or honest, in the main. Or else this is a gambit to make her feel as though she’s being given an unusual degree of trust or truthfulness, to get an upper hand in negotiations. The Well is a tumult in the back of her mind; no help to be had from that corner.

As for no one knowing what’s said here...

_Mythal will,_ she thinks. She's not entirely sure how to keep secrets from Mythal. 

Not yet.

The smoky veils twist like the pleased curl of a smile, and Shadow speaks again,

"Have no fear on that score, Firefly. The Wolf knew what he was about when he created the spell; the charm you cast is a guarantee of secrecy. The Sword of Justice will find no impression of our conversation in the Fade and the ripples will bend the pattern of your thoughts to conceal it. Or did you suppose that his rebellion was entirely made up of careful, cunning spies?"

Is she _certain_ Dirthamen was a man? She tries to armor her mind as best she can, and the woman shakes her head, veils eddying.

"Misplaced concern. Secrets are mine to see, but not mine to steal or to sell. I am not the Thought-Taker, and your walls might well keep him out. You have it in you to confound immortals, Firefly, but I understand you."

"One might well wonder where such comprehension comes from."

"Ah, you have been warned already, the way questions can open a window. Yes; I, too, was once held in thrall by an Evanuris, before I became more than he could hold. You are nearly there already, and you barely older than an echo! You will have a choice, soon, in how you will react to the breaking of your chains."

In thrall.

_“They are slave-markings.”_

It has to be past-tense - there’s no way this woman would let a mark of ownership stay, even if she does hide her face.

A memory flickers to life, strong enough to shape the Fade for half a heartbeat - a beloved, familiar face, with Mythal’s graceful branches arching across his brow.

She can’t think about that now. It’s dangerous to more than just her, no matter who this woman is, or was. She wears her heart too openly, especially when it’s hurting.

Individual steps. Focus.

If Shadow had joined Solas's rebellion, surely she would have been spoken of as an ally. The stories of her people are the shadows cast by the truth, not the truth itself, but they suggest the shape of things. They speak of the gods, they speak of Fen’Harel… but there are those the Dalish do not speak of, who are remembered only in whispers. She flinches away from that thought before steadying herself. Fen’Harel is said to have interacted with both sides enough to play them against each other, enough to trick them both. Perhaps only that much, but...

That may mean this woman, whoever she is, is not significantly more horrible than the Evanuris. If one side had truly been more terrible, Solas would have allied with anyone working to crush the greater threat and then divided the survivors from within. 

He is capable of that kind of practicality. Before the Inquisition, she would not have thought that she was, but necessity has taught her a great deal about what she is truly made of.

So: One of the Forgotten Ones. Perhaps less terrible than myth would make her think.

It’s not much to work with - conjecture based on faulty recollection. It’s all she has to go on, though, since her heart still won’t speak to her.

And unfortunately, given what he did tell her about Falon’din and what she saw in Dirthamen’s temple, ‘not significantly more horrible than the Evanuris’ still encompasses a great deal of horrific ground. What she knows of the Evanuris is appalling, and it’s the barest broken fragments of the whole.

Still; if myths and lies are what she has, those are where she must glean what truths she may. What can story and song offer her about this prospective ally?

"Will you grant me the courtesy of your name?"

Shadow is not it, is obviously not it; “shadow-fledged” is an appellation, albeit a more neutral one than she’d expect to hear a foe using. It must have been a very common one; even her enemies often knew her as ‘Inquisitor,’ after all.

Not an Evanuris. Probably one of the Forgotten ones. She does not know most of their names, nor even how many of them there were; it may not help. But this woman speaks in meaning. Her name will reveal something about her, even if it is only a self-aggrandizing title she chose to strike fear or awe into the hearts of foe and friend alike.

A name will tell her something, and she is curious to find out what it will say.

"You do not venture a guess? I am disappointed, Firefly. I shall have to rename you, if you are not bright and quick."

There’s something to in the taunt that makes her spirit allies draw closer to her, blaze brighter. There is a threat there, for all she doesn’t understand it. Shadow is dangerous. All the more so because she is an unknown quantity in so many ways.

Calm voice. Negotiations have not yet broken down. Don’t tense; fear cedes the upper hand.

"Why speculate when I can be certain? You say you come as a potential ally, to discuss a trade. Allies certainly should know one another's names."

"You comprehend a great deal more by the idea of an alliance than we did, then.”

Shadow falls silent, waiting. She waits, too.

Finally the quiet ripples with another wave of amusement, maybe approval.

“I will not tell you - but I invite you to guess."

Well, start with the obvious.

"You're one of the Forgotten Ones."

Shadow says nothing, but her mirth flutters around her like butterflies.

"Your people have forgotten much, yes, but you do know a name for me. Shattered-thing, you may give her a hint."

She makes a peremptory gesture at Certainty, and - 

"Do not call it that."

It is the sharpest tone she’s used so far; an unconsidered, instinctual reaction that she’s half-ashamed of as soon as it escapes. Control is going to be important, faced with the patience and careless cruelty of immortals, and yet here she is, impulsive as a barefaced child.

All three - Faith, Certainty, the strange possibly-malevolent not-god - look at her.

Barefaced is true again, at any rate. She tilts her chin up. She is not sorry for saying it, for all it was unwise.

Shadow says, sounding only mildly curious, “It has been broken, just shy of splintering into new spirits. Why not call it what it is?"

The question is a handhold, one she grabs almost instinctually. Answers are as important as food or water; answers will keep her alive, will enable her to keep _others_ alive. And - yes, there. She does understand Shadow well enough to grasp this, through the question; it wasn’t said out of malice, out of intent to wound, any more than Abelas called her ‘shemlen’ as an attack. And if she, ignorant, stumbling child that she is in this new arena, can understand that much from a creature with millenias of practice in hiding intent, then...

"If you know my thoughts, why ask what they are?"

"I know those things you already feel inclined to share but are not sure you should speak. I know which truths your mind reaches for, and then past. I know those thoughts that are what I would think in your place. And it is given to me to know the workings of your mind that most confound those who know you best. You are strong enough to block more than that simply by wishing, which is why the Sword of Justice does not fully understand that your eventual freedom is not a possibility, but a certainty."

That... makes a certain amount of sense, really. And Shadow has all but told her that her domain is hidden truths.

Not Dirthamen, but the clear overlap makes it all the more obvious why Shadow dislikes him.

“But you do understand that. You know I will fight my way free if I can.”

“I do. Because I have stood where you now stand, or near enough to recall a similar view, and because she sees it not at all. She has been betrayed and brought low, but she has not been bound as we. Now; you voiced an objection.”

"I do not like to hear my allies insulted." She has had to stomach it, of course; her people do not have the power to punish every slight against them, or even most. Too much pride can kill whole clans, and almost nothing is worth that risk. And then there was the Inquisition, where she had the strength to respond but too often politics tied her hands.

She is now in the strange position of having little to risk save herself, and she finds it much harder to accept slights to those who still fight at her side.

Shadow nods.

"Very well. Certainty, then, if you will still answer to that. You may give her a hint."

“Her titles changed little and will be familiar; the winder of skeins, the obscuring shadow, labyrinth-minder, weaver of -”

Shadow waves an imperious hand. A wave of heavy silence rolls out and Certainty's voice cuts off as sharp and sudden as snipped thread. It's a profligate display of power that sets her teeth on edge.

The obscuring shadow, she thinks, and that’s familiar. That catches on memory and tugs. The Frostback Basin. A dark cave.

_“...the Shadow Which Obscures the Path Ahead…”_

A temple, dedicated to the Dragon of Mystery.

She is going to have words for Solas, if she does not die of this. A lot of words, at volume, about the imbecilic folly of the notion that ignorance benefits anyone at all, in the long run. She is stumbling blind because he did not trust her heart or her wit or her will, and she is suddenly so incandescently angry that it transmutes, somehow, into calm.

“Razikale.”

Shadow - Razikale - waves her hand again and the forceful grip of silence loosens, falls away. Certainty makes a gravelly growling noise that sounds for all the world like a drake about to spit fire.

"Even so, quickling."

She is so very, heartily sick of being called a shemlen. She is tired of being belittled and dismissed.

Razikale tilts her head, mist-veils tugged along like clouds in her wake. Well. Maybe she heard that, too, but it’s hard to care. It would be nice for the ancients to stop insulting her to her face, even if the pretense at civility is because they read her offense from her thoughts, rather than from stiff shoulders or the set of her ears.

Move past it. Keep walking.

"You wished to propose a trade."

"Yes. I have information which I believe will interest you."

"That is half a trade. What do you want from me?"

Razikale lifts away the veils hiding her face. It takes her a long moment to entirely understand what she's seeing. Razikale would be the most exquisitely beautiful woman she's ever seen up close if the left side and right side mirrored one another. The left side of her face is hauntingly lovely.

The right side is a twisted ruin.

Razikale fixes her with a furious storm-grey eye and offers half a hopeless smile.

"It’s one and the same,” the Old God says, and there’s a familiar echo behind it.

Faint, so faint, barely there at all - but audible.

A song. The sound drops the bottom out of her stomach.

The Blight.

“They found you.”

But - Razikale shakes her head.

“Not yet. Not the way you mean. The poison seeps through the blood of the earth; the thralls are some miles off, yet. But the poison sings, and louder every day. I know what is coming.”

Her face twists. Her veils boil around her as her anger claws the air. She gestures at the ruined side of her face.

“I burned the contamination out once. It will not work a second time; if I shred myself in fighting, I will be easy prey when the thralls find my flesh.”

She wears a dragon’s form. Dragons are highly resistant to the Blight. Resistant - not immune. Razikale has been there for centuries. If the lyrium around her is Blighted...

“You aren’t asking me to stop the Darkspawn. You want me to free you. Old Gods of Tevinter, and you want my help.”

Because if Razikale is freed, she’ll free her ally, if only for the safety of numbers. Freeing her means freeing Lusacan, as well, albeit indirectly.

The Dragon of Mystery. The Dragon of Night. 

Well, she thinks sourly. It could be worse. It could be the Old God of Chains.

Razikale’s face twists again, a mirthless smile.

“We are not dissimilar, Firefly. You cannot fight a poison that is breaking reality and a monster that wishes to destroy all that lives and the conquering army of a family of god-kings. We fought only two, and look what became of us.”

“You were fighting the Blight? I suppose you intend to sweeten the deal with whatever you learned, but if it were actionable, Solas wouldn’t have been so eager to jump directly to untested magic with probable horrific side effects that would cost everything he had and then some.”

As a strategy, raising the Veil was insane. It cannot have been plan A. Solas proved himself more than equal to beating Bull and Cullen at chess; he is not, generally speaking, an idiot.

So whatever the Forgotten Ones were doing, it wasn’t working, or close to working, or looking likely to ever work. If they’d done a half-decent job of fighting the Evanuris or the Blight - if they’d done that and been anything less than monstrous - Solas would have helped them.

“Oh no, Firefly, your Wardens know much of what we did. You would not find that an equitable trade.”

“It seems rather counter to your nature to admit that.”

“Do not imagine you know me so well, Firefly. Your people have no tales of us any longer, and the myths of the modern Imperium are rooted in what it suited us for the cast-offs to know, what would make them useful tools in our hands. Mystery lives in the half-light, in the veiled allusion and the gradual revelation. In answering your questions, I am in full alignment with my nature. Mysteries kept silent grow stale and die. They are meant to be shared with those found worthy.”

“And have you stumbled across many worthy souls while you’ve been buried for a centuries-long nap?” The question is impertinent, snaps tartly in the air. She is teasing a maybe-evil god-king.

Somewhere, she imagines, Keeper Deshanna has just awoken in a cold sweat and doesn’t know why.

But Razikale matches her tone and her mirth and the sweet-tart berry taste of playfulness.

“Shockingly few, in fact, which may explain why my standards are now so sadly eroded that I turn to you.” The dry delivery reminds her so strongly of Dorian that she can’t help laughing.

The grin stays when she comments, “I would never have expected you to be mortal enough to joke. I’m glad to have been wrong about that.”

“You were not, or not entirely. The others, by and large, did not have any great appreciation for humor. We fashioned ourselves after the very monsters we escaped. But we were trying to fix what they were breaking, even if we went about it in monstrous ways. The song spread swiftly, before the sky was sundered. It is slower, now - much slower. Perhaps, having lived through the fear engendered by the crawling, crippled version that infects your world, you can understand, in part. We were afraid. We were desperate. And yes, we were cruel. We were not doing the best we could. He was right to stop us. But we serve nothing and no one by dying as beasts.”

Razikale brings her arms up in supplication, veils flowing apart to reveal long-fingered but otherwise unremarkable hands. The Dragon of Mystery’s nails are uneven. Somehow, that does more to convince her than anything else. This woman is strange, and powerful, and very probably awful - but she’s still a person. And no one deserves to die like that.

People do die like that, and she can’t save all of them - but no one deserves to. And she can save this one.

“You will soon have enemies enough for anyone, Firefly, mortal or not. You do not want us, either of us, twisted to break the world while the Evanuris set about doing the same thing by different means. There are only so many fronts on which one can sustain a war.”

“You’re saying they’ll find you both. You and Lusacan.”

“They are near. They know it. The song is triumphant, discordant. So loud, now. A processional march and a funeral dirge, albeit slightly premature on both counts.”

Archdemons are destroyed when their Blights are ended. It does not stop the Blight. A spirit becomes a demon, when denied its true purpose. A spirit can be shattered, all the more easily if it is twisted out of true with violence.

But you can’t unmake either of them. Something always survives.

“Yes. We cannot any of us help our song. We cannot be silent, and it cannot be silenced.”

What in the name of earth and sky are they going up against?

That’s a problem for later, though - one that can, perhaps, wait. The problem of the Blight in general has been a growing threat for millennia, apparently as long as the world she knows has even existed. The prospect of another Blight _event,_ helmed by not one but two Archdemons, scant decades after the first, is a much more immediate issue.

People believing that the Inquisitor was a god, or god-touched, was enough to make it true.

What happens when enough people believe a war can’t be won?

Razikale draws her veils down again with a sigh that sets them rippling.

“You understand the problem. You do not want this war. I am amenable to neutrality. I would prefer to retain my mind; my doing so means that I do not become a weapon turned against you. Our desires in this overlap. And I can sweeten the deal.”

“By helping fight the Evanuris?”

“Oh no, Firefly. Mythal will have her war on her own terms. She will not thank you for inviting more players onto her board. No… your Inquisition had a reputation, once, strong enough to echo in the Fade. You heard whispers, and unraveled mysteries, and knew the shape of things in the shadows.”

“I had a very good spymaster, then.”

“She will still do her best to shine a light before you; you have her as your eyes even now. I am offering you _ears_.”

She waits. That’s tempting bait, but it means allowing her information to be channeled through someone she does not - dares not - trust. Still. I will be interesting to see what Razikale thinks she values enough to enter into a partnership (albeit a more equal and consensual one) with yet another ancient elven despot.

“Fear alone does not kill.”

What?

Razikale laughs.

“I am compelled to truth, not to explanations. Unravel the mystery, decide if riddles and the promise of approximate neutrality are worth a formal alliance. And on that note - you have much to do, and little time. It is past time for you to... _wake up._ ”

She sits bolt upright in a dark stone room, cool and damp pressing in on her and her heart clenching at those words the way flesh always flinches away from pain.

Everyone knows, it seems. Her friends think her a fool, and Mythal warns her and binds her against seeking him out, and an ancient dragon-god who has been bound under the earth for millennia nonetheless knows enough to taunt her with it.

She sets her face in her hands and takes one long, shivering breath before rising, slashing her palm through the symbols she drew the night before. The chalk smears. The runes flare and vanish.

-=]|[=-

“Ahh, Wolf. I wondered how long it would take you to come.”

“Raven. Where is she?”

“I confess myself astonished that you think I would aid you, after all that has passed.”

“I think you would negotiate.”

“You cannot find her. She must have slept, surely, and yet the Fade does not show her steps. You are afraid, and confused. You are in no position to negotiate.”

“And you are hidden deep beneath deadened stone and trapped in dreams, so I suggest that you stop pretending to a tactical advantage you do not possess and TELL ME WHERE SHE IS.”

It’s layered with a rolling growl so deep it trembles the ground. The birdsong falls silent, but that is immaterial. This much, Mythal can see.

Razikale chuckles, low and unamused.

“You want me to tell you she lives. You do not want to wonder why her faith came to you, a sudden surge and then silence. Absence. Too much power for one mortal life unless it was a mortal life in full, grace gifted in that final moment.”

“I want the truth.”

“You want an _answer_. Her life would absolve you of the guilt you should bear, give you hope. Her death would goad you onward, convince you that you are doing what you must, that because you have paid so much already you must be willing to pay all. I give you neither hope nor conviction. I give you uncertainty and terror, Wolf, just as you have given them to me.” She funnels the melody of the Blight, the first cursed tendrils presaging a great flood, into her voice; it is a chorus in and around her and a part of her quakes but more of her is vicious with the fear. “I give you _mystery_.”

She laughs, a single sharp bark, and he sets his mouth in a thin, pale line.

“I did not mean for this to happen.”

“Are you sure? It never occurred to you that, oh, they who can take the form of the Divine are more resistant. They could draw off the poison. They could hold vast quantities, and then they could be destroyed. How convenient it would be.”

“I did _not mean for this to happen._ ”

“But this much, at least, you knew _might_ happen. I have no answers for you, Wolf. Only questions I will never again trust you enough to ask.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the part where I really start walking off of established lore and onto my own wild speculation. I'm discovering that fic writing is a bit like a Loony Tunes sketch and the whole thing is much easier if I don't question myself so much (I want to be the Roadrunner, not Wile E. Coyote). This fic WILL probably be the beneficiary of my NaNo sprints, so at least we're coming up on A Period In Which I Will Be Writing At A Reasonable Pace.
> 
> As always, thank you to everyone who has left kudos - you remind me my fic exists and that people might like to see more of it.
> 
> And my most sincere gratitude to every single one of you who's commented - you guys make my day, every time, and hearing what you like and are interested in help me figure out how to keep this thing moving in the right direction.


	7. Form

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With sincere thanks to all of you for your patience and encouragement, but especially to Linnypants, who left comments on all the preceding chapters and gave me the motivation to try one more time (there were three attempts at this which I hated so much that I started completely from scratch), and to ObsidianMichi, for being excited and convincing me to post instead of poking at it resentfully for another week. I hope you enjoy!

Cool night air chills her clammy skin and leaves her shivering in wan, watery light that barely picks shapes out of the shadows. It’s still the smallest hours of the morning, still night by any reasonable measure. Sunrise is hours off. Her rabbit-racing pulse thrums in her throat. She reaches for calm, but can’t quite catch it.

 

The wooden arm creaks where she has it fisted in the blankets, and she makes herself unclench the fingers, one by one, pulling bramble-claws back out of the weft. It takes more effort than it should, formless anxiety pulsing under her sternum.

 

Fear whispers across the Veil and she takes a deep breath, tries to realign herself to something else. Anything else.

 

 _No knowledge is wasted_ , she reminds herself. _Use this._

 

Fear is reasonable, but not productive; fear drives thought out of the mind and anger closes it tight. Misery makes you curl around the hurt rather than trying to address it.

 

She cannot help her feelings, but she cannot let them control her. She can be frightened and unhappy, but she must be other things, too. Must be other things more.

 

What she ought to be, in truth, is asleep. She rode hard yesterday - she should be exhausted, but while her body does register a vague protest, her magic is still overflowing its banks like a river in flood; deceptively smooth and quiet, and all the more dangerous for it.

 

Her limbs are lead-heavy when she levers herself off the cot, but her legs bear her up easily enough. She hasn’t pushed herself too far yet. She rolls her shoulders, trying to settle, shake off the constricting concern holding her muscles tense to the bone.  When that fails, she tries to outrun it, instead, to move until it abates. There are no patrols to take up within these walls, no real exertion to be had, but she can walk the sanctuary until she’s steady, settled.

 

Ghileth raises his head with a noisy breath when she sweeps into the nave. It’s not quite an alarm bugle, but he’s scanning, his ears rotating - he’s looking for what has her spooked. He doesn’t rise, yet, though, with no sounds or sights of concern and no real panic sending her scrambling. She sees that he’s been napping curled before a votive statue of Andraste, trying to fit his bulk onto the cushion placed for kneeling worshippers and she chuckles. That helps where nothing else has; a chill chases its way down her arms and leaves her feeling more grounded, more settled in her skin.

 

“It’s alright, my friend,” she tells him. That is not true, not quite, and it sits bitter on her tongue. She grimaces and amends, “we will be alright. I’ll make sure of it.”

 

The promise sends a little tendril of power out to gently stroke down Ghileth’s forehead. She can see it; sees him settle comfortably under the reassurance.

 

 _Oaths made by beings of power are binding,_ the Well murmurs.

 

Even oaths that aren’t fully understood, apparently. Maybe that should worry her. Maybe if she were a different kind of person, it would. As it is… well, she misleads and pushes and does her best to manipulate the situations she’s in, but she doesn’t make promises she won’t fight to keep. She’s always been like that, so it doesn’t upset her to find herself in a situation where honoring her word is necessary as well as right.

 

Ghileth blows out a long sigh and lowers his head again, falling back into sleep with enviable ease.

 

Nothing really is alright, not right now. But it’s the kind of not alright that probably only makes sense to people, not to harts. She’s never observed a hart having an episode of existential dread, in any case. Their fears and worries tend to be more concrete and immediate. Food, comfort, herd. Bears.

 

To be fair, she gets to worry about all of those things, too, on top of whether her action or inaction will actively abet the end of the world.

 

But they will be alright, at least for now. She has the power to be sure of that much, and she’ll find a way to be sure of more. She has to.

 

How, though?

 

She paces up and down the nave of the chantry, letting the rhythm of her steps and her breathing and her pulse pull her thoughts into order.

 

She has two Old Gods to find. She needs to do it soon - and soon by her own mortal estimation of such things. She thinks again of Solas, of Mythal, of the urgency of acting now.

 

Why? Why would the Blight frighten gods as much as it frightens mortals?

 

Or does it frighten them more, because they better understand its nature and its scope?

 

The uncertainties wind tight behind her ears, snarling into a knot of tension, and she rubs angrily at the ache of it, shakes her head. Unproductive. She has no way to chase these truths, not now.

 

Not yet.

 

The problem immediately before her; finding the Dragons of Mystery and Night. She does not know where they are. Cartography will not help; Urthemiel did not rise from the Urthemiel Plateau in the Tirashan, he carved his way up out of the Korkari Wilds. A map of the Deep Roads would perhaps be marginally more useful, but she does not have one.

 

 _Facts_ , she reminds herself. The knowledge she already has in hand, not what she needs to hunt for. Chasing two rabbits means greens for dinner.

 

What does she know of Old Gods, generally?

 

Corypheus knew Dumat was dead when he called to him; the god’s blood was used to bind him to his prison. But then…

 

 _The first of my people do not die so easily_.

 

Mythal certainly didn’t. And the Avvar talk about the death and rebirth of their gods in a cycle. The first of the People were spirits clothed in flesh by their own will, their own choice. She remembers the feel of the shattered Terror, the day before; the wisps that were born of it.

 

Solas said that something might be reborn from Wisdom, when it died. Perhaps more powerful spirits keep more of their sense of self when they are ‘killed.’

 

Something always survives. And yet… often not the same something, not always something recognizable as what it was. Solas said that what his friend became would likely not remember him. Mythal was something very different before her centuries clawing her way back to consciousness, even before she bound herself to a human woman named Flemeth.

 

But Mythal remembered what she was. So some things can. And even those that don’t are not _destroyed_.

 

Memory and blood and immortality. Songs and lyrium and poison.

 

Something always survives.

 

They saved Urthemiel’s soul, or his power - something of him. Flemeth - Mythal - took it. Could take it. Because Kieran was her grandson? Because he allowed it?

 

Because Urthemiel allowed it?

 

A soul is not forced upon the unwilling, she’d said. But what constitutes consent, in such an arrangement? Possession, of the kind she’d been cautioned about, outwardly did not seem to involve any such thing. It’s described as demons seizing up unwilling hosts.

 

But it’s not strictly true, she knows; they whisper and coax and tempt. Frighten. Push.

 

What they do is worse and more frightening than simple theft because it must be, in part, permitted.

 

Corypheus could move to a new host body when his own was destroyed. Was that something he was taught by Dumat? Was it blood magic, or something to do with the path to godhood?

 

She thinks of the strange, vacant stares of the Wardens who followed him. He had some kind of hold over them, obviously. Was that important?

 

Was that something of what made a greater power in the days of Arlathan, in the time before the Veil? Was consent something you could demand, presume upon, if you had the slimmest shadow of a claim to it?

 

Falon’din bathed in blood, and it strengthened him. He was the god of death - deaths, even of those who refused to bend the knee… the power from such a thing might have been his by right. That might have been something he could draw strength from.

 

She shudders.

 

If she were any weaker, she knows, drinking from the Well would mean Mythal could presume upon her consent for nearly anything.

 

But she hasn’t, yet - hasn’t really even tried. Maybe that’s what made her ‘the best of them.’ Mythal’s sole standing order - that she not seek out Solas -still leaves her largely unhindered to pursue her other goals, goals that all three (four, perhaps, with Razikale, or five, if Lusacan agrees) of them have in common. All of them want the Evanuris stopped.

 

That she has not been specifically directed in how to go about her goals means she will do it to suit herself, and that was always going to look the way forming the Inquisition did - a coalition of friends and allies, both loyal and circumstantially aligned. And once she has allies, she will be able to obey the letter of the injunction while breaking the spirit. Eventually she will break the geas itself, of course, because she’ll be damned if she spends the rest of her life talking to the man she loves through intermediaries - but that may mean fighting Mythal, and that can certainly wait until the greater threat is dealt with.

 

Then, too, if Solas wouldn’t fight the Evanuris head-on in ancient times, it was almost certainly because they could not be fought. Not alone. So she truly _needs_ allies, which means she’s back to needing to find the surviving Old Gods and make sure they _continue_ to survive, because they were strong enough to be called gods, they may still have enough faithful to empower them in the rewritten rules of reality, and they will almost certainly want her enemies dead. She might be able to save something of Mystery, even if Razikale dies. But it won’t be Razikale, and it would almost certainly not be as inclined - or as able - to offer her aid.

 

Gods may be hard to kill in a permanent sense, but what survives does not necessarily retain anything useful. And it is always weakened, at least for a time.

 

So Urthemiel’s soul would likely not be helpful even if she had access to it, which she does not. Razikale will not be even so helpful as her nature permits unless she is rescued entire and intact.

 

Will Night be more forthcoming? Perhaps. If she can find him.

 

_If, if, if._

 

She scruffs her good hand through her hair, shoving it away from her face. She does not know where Mystery and Night are buried, but someone must have known, once; the Wardens would not have marched into the Deep Roads without any idea of where to look for their quarry, not when they’re packed with Darkspawn and the traps and weapons the dwarves devised trying to stop the onslaught and any number of other dangers. So either the Wardens knew, or - more likely - the Venatori did.

 

Tevinter are arrogant enough to write everything down; in all likelihood this is recorded too. Where would the Venatori have kept such records?

 

She has no idea.

 

She fiddles with the sending crystal. It’s still stupidly early, here in the rural south of Ferelden. It’s even earlier in Tevinter, farther west. Dorian is almost certainly asleep, and research of this nature will demand a good deal of time and energy.

 

She’d do it herself, if she had access to the Imperium’s libraries, but it would take weeks of travel (weeks she does not have) just to get there, and she will voluntarily set foot on Tevinter soil when Minrathous burns and not one hour before.

 

She realizes, abruptly, that she is now flying across the sanctuary, three steps each way, pinching the world together to shorten the distance. She’s still doing magic on accident.

 

She remembers Command, complaining that the world ignored her. It’s just as uncomfortable the other way around; she’s unaccustomed to the world paying her so much heed.

 

She is unfathomably dangerous this way. She could destroy, so easily, with one spiteful thought.

 

 _Your training stands you in good stead_ , one of the voices of the Well whispers.

 

 _You have done no harm, young god though you be_ , another agrees.

 

As though youth or inexperience are any excuse for hurting people. Dalish children know their lineage. Any stripling can name the mages in their family tree dating back six generations or more; they know who comes from lines of magic, and they know if they need to be careful. Every child learns to meditate, at the very least, because that precaution costs a clan almost nothing and a frightened child calling lightning down on a dry plain can cost them everything.

 

Vivienne said that magic was like fire, and she was right, but fire has been tamed to the use of mortal hands for millennia. A  thing being potentially dangerous does not mean it isn’t an essential and foundational tool.

 

But the voices speak as though this degree of self-restraint is unusual, and that has to be from the examples set for them in Arlathan.

 

Ghilan’nain was added to the pantheon. Sylaise was the youngest. Which was it? Was it both of them? She clenches her fists and then carefully, deliberately relaxes fingers-hands-arms-shoulders-neck-jaw.

 

She tilts her head back and breathes, careful, mindful.

 

“Will I be angry,” she asks, “when I know what they did?”

 

There is consensus, for a moment: A perfect accord and a clear, ringing _yes_ that reminds her of the first days, when they spoke with one will more often than not.

 

Whatever the Evanuris did to the ancient elves to make even disciples of Mythal wary, they will try to do it to her people, too, when they wake. And she will have to stop them; Mythal implied that the protection of the Dalish will be left to her and whoever she can convince to stand with her.

 

She slows her steps.

 

It isn’t the answer to her most pressing question, but Mythal also said that the Well has things to teach her that she hasn’t yet thought to ask for. She demanded her people’s language, and got it. She asked for tutelage in familiar magics, and was given that and more. The voices have offered her tidbits, now and again, and fragmentary knowledge of the ancient world they knew.

 

But…

 

_You have my leave to use whatever they will give you or you can wrest from them._

 

Mythal mentioned defense, but there are other magics to be had, clearly. Ancient and powerful magics her people have lost or forgotten. Some might be better left in obscurity, but others...

 

She thinks of Morrigan, of seeing her change her shape when called upon to fight in the Temple. She would have learned from Mythal.

 

“Ghilan’ma,” she tells them. “Show me how.”

 

-=]|[=-

 

It is an open secret, at the Arlathven, that such a thing is possible. No one says who knows, because even that much knowledge is a danger to the clans that travel close to humans. One incautious word means death, and letting it get about that the ‘knife ears’ know _this_ … well.

 

They’ve been murdered en masse for stupider reasons.

 

But if a war is coming, they will all need to know as much as they can. If she knows, if she is the plausible source for all such knowledge, then blame for this knowing can fall on her alone - and if every mage among them learn how to use it to fight, then it will be very difficult indeed to kill them for it.

 

One of the voices tells her, repressively, that shapechanging is a matter of careful and patient study. That done properly, it will take years of watching an animal until she understands it down to her marrow. That it is an art meant to take decades.

 

She does not have decades, but that does not matter.

 

“I could select a creature one of _you_ understands. Mythal said you could teach me, but also that I might have anything I found the wherewithal to take, and I already know you can show me things.”

 

She would rather not press them that hard, would prefer not use force if anything less will suffice. They will be sharing the inside of her skull for the foreseeable future, after all - but she also does not have time to do this the long way. World-ending calamities and ancient and vengeful gods are somewhat more urgent than taking up intensive study as a naturalist.

 

She feels a moment of resistance, but from far less of them than she might have expected.

 

Two feel intrigued, shapes in her mind she almost recognizes (one was an eager participant in her lexicographic efforts, another showed her how to turn the light spell into a grenade) and those are the ones she reaches for first.

 

-=]|[=-

 

There are many possible forms, they tell her. Many she will be _able_ to take, but one will be the first, and one will suit her _best_. There will be one - at least one - that feels as natural as her own skin.

 

Nothing jumps to mind. She does not typically look at animals and experience the keen desirous envy that she felt as a child on seeing adults at the Arlathven decked out in traditional Dalish finery. The voices offer her creatures to try on, forms to wear, as though shape were as easily put on as robes or armor. It’s an utterly alien idea, but it makes a sort of sense; Conviction did say her people were ‘trapped in their flesh’ as though it were aberrant and abhorrent.

 

So now she has voices suggesting bodies the way Leliana and Josephine and Vivienne suggested ways to dress her hair for Orlesian events.

 

 _Bear_ , one high voice urges; _a sturdy form, for a patient guardian_. It teases up memories of keeping an eye on mother and cub pairs from a distance when the clan was on the move. She knows this creature well enough, she realizes, as the memories slide into place at the forefront of her mind. She could do it, between what she remembers and what this voice offers. She remembers being attacked in the Hinterlands, too. She knows the ferocity that would lend her, but… it doesn’t feel quite right. There is nothing particularly nuanced about a charging bear.

 

 _Raven_ , suggests the light-grenade voice, pouncing on her antipathy to tug forth memories of Leliana’s rookery and the bright-eyed, clever messengers calling to each other in coarse voices, delicately nibbling offered tidbits when she brought snacks for her unconcealed favorite, Sage, when the bird was recovering from a broken leg. It is tempting; they are swift and winged, watchful, clever. And wings… she has watched flying creatures with wonder and envy all her life. But no. They are small and fragile, and she cannot risk being either of those things. She needs a form she can fight in.

 

And then, too, the bear and raven are Dirthamen’s creatures, and she is _not_. No longer, and never again.

 

 _Your myths are inaccurate_ , the voice that suggested raven form sighs, but lets it pass. So perhaps animals were not so rigidly segregated as myth portrays them?

 

 _Differently segregated_ , the raven-voice tells her. _Calling and caste, not court_.

 

The lexicographer suggests, _Wolf, perhaps._

 

“Wolf?”

 

All of the forms had meanings, plainly. What were the wolves?

 

The three who have been most eager to help pour out history and memory into her eager hands; knights whose favored form was a fierce, devoted animal with strong pack bonds, who formed packs of their own and wore two legs or four but were always together.

 

It is so very like her imaginings of the Emerald Knights that memory overlays fancy, gives it depth and detail and _weight._ She has seen this in her mind since she was a child, raised on tales of their lost homeland.

 

They got this so very, very right, when they tried to rebuild. Maybe that’s why Solas said his people had built a home in the Dales; this was something he recognized.

 

So the wolves, then, were the armies of Arlathan - her soldiers and generals.

 

 _Not generals,_ the voices correct. _Soldiers, bodyguards, temple guardians._

 

Temple guardians? Oh. _Oh._

 

She’d wondered, seeing wolf statues in Dirthamen’s sanctuary. Morrigan had been almost offended to see one looking over the receiving area in Mythal’s sanctum - and had been certain it depicted Fen’harel.

 

There hadn’t been time for a debate on iconography or theology, so she had simply suggested it might have an alternate meaning. Religions become wildly more complicated when a people are settled in one place and have the leisure to invent complex ritual, and immortals would have certainly had a surplus of time.

 

Just look at the puzzles; she’s still not sure what purpose that served, as far as supplication went. The experience was meditative, but not particularly onerous or time-consuming.

 

(In hindsight, she’s shocked it wasn’t much, much worse.)

 

For his part, Solas had sneered at Morrigan’s certainty, claimed she could not resist giving legend the weight of history. It had been plain he thought she knew nothing and understood less.

 

So there were many wolves, and they were soldiers and guardians. The statues make sense, in light of that.

 

A flash of memory from the Vir Dirthara; disagreements between gods, settled by proxy.

 

If they were soldiers… were they also chosen as champions?

 

_It was an insult to send one of the marked, one who followed the ghilan‘him banal'vhen, to stand against the noble representative of another god._

 

Oh, of course. Slave markings. And if you’re an empress or emperor, you want the people dying for your honor to be appropriately pedigreed, so they don’t sully your good name. It would be an _insult_ to let a slave fight for you - an indication that your foe wasn’t worth the honor of a noble warrior.

 

Or that you considered the slave to be a person, equal to any other, but given what she has learned of Arlathan… well. The vileness of their hierarchy had more in common with Tevinter or Orlais than it does with anything she would recognize as elven.

 

“Your world was awful,” she mutters. She has spent most of her life in quiet mourning for Arlathan’s wonders, for a world her people could thrive in, but the only thing she mourns now is the horrific waste of life that attended its downfall. She mourns for her people, the ones she would recognize as her own. Those who were just living, as best they could.

 

Wolf. Soldier. Slave.

 

_I know they are intelligent, practical creatures that small-minded fools think of as terrible beasts._

 

Of course.

 

He’d told Blackwall, _You should have seen me when I was younger. Hot-blooded and cocky, always ready to fight._

 

She laughs a little, feels her throat closing around it. Her eyes sting.

 

The memory stone, still in her bag, showing familiar features under Mythal’s vallaslin, and the admiration and pride of whoever recorded it. _He left a scar when he burned her off his face._

 

But he fought for her, before he fought against the system she was part of.

 

She wonders when, exactly, that happened. It can’t have been after he removed the vallaslin; that would have been part and parcel of becoming the god of rebellion, seemingly on accident.

 

She can’t picture him as a foot soldier, though. A nameless grunt. If he didn’t have the temperament for such a thing after being beaten down by a thousand years of disappointments and despair, he cannot possibly have been anything like tractable as a hot-headed youth.

 

 _He wanted to fight for her,_ they tell her. _The Lady of Justice allowed it._

 

They just said it was an insult. A profound one.

 

But it would also have been the only just course of action. That seems right. Solas thought she was the best of them. And there is no system of bondage or indenture that is not rotten with injustice.

 

 _It was a sign she considered the fights beneath her, that she did not send a noble into the ring to represent her,_ one voice says.

 

_But yes; it was also a challenge to the system itself._

 

A tricky challenge, one she could brush off as being about the issue being settled or the other party, rather than about the rotten core of her civilization. She’s not sure if she should feel admiration or alarm; this being has her on a long leash, but it would be terribly dangerous for her to ever forget that the tether is there.

 

So. Solas fought for Mythal. For Justice.

 

Of course.

 

And he won, obviously, or he would have been dead. If it was an insult to Mythal’s challengers to field him against their champions, that would have been answered with death if he were anything less than the unquestioned victor.

 

_And thus, the Dread Wolf._

 

Ah. An insult that he took as a badge of pride. Mythal must have been certain he would win. She would have lost face if he had not. But she painted a target on his back by doing it, all the same, even if she was sure he’d survive the fight itself.

 

He would have been an arrogant upstart, and then a shocking revelation. The insults would have begun when he kept winning. ‘The Dread Wolf’ would have been an attempt to belittle his victories, to make mock when they could not stop him.

 

No wonder he was so amused by Orlais.

 

 _Not a wolf_ , says the voice that suggested raven form. _You are apart from your pack._

 

_Lone wolves die._

 

Solas didn’t.

 

But Solas wasn’t alone, she realizes. During his revolution he was surrounded by people who believed in him. When he woke, he was with the Inquisition. In between, he tried to reach her people, even if he did it in the most unproductive possible way. He had friends - spirits - but he was miserable alone. When she first met him, he was prickly and difficult and _lonely_.

 

And he still walked away from her, to be alone again.

 

That hits an unhealed bruise of feeling hard enough to shock the breath out of her, but she controls it, blinks, knuckles irritably at her damp eyes. She misses her clan and her family and her heart, and yes, it would be wrong to take a form based around those bonds with none of them near her.

 

The voices of the Well are quieter, with their other suggestions, but she’s only half-listening. There’s one creature that has not come up. One she expected to hear.

 

And she wants distraction. So: A question.

 

“Why haven’t you suggested halla?”

 

She couldn’t be one of those, either, and she already knows it; whatever she may be, under her skin, she does not have the fundamental temperament of a halla. They are gentle and wise and fierce and serene by turns. She... tries to be those things. Tries, and does not often succeed. But halla are so much a part of elven life, elven culture - Dalish culture, yes, but halla predate the Dalish, predate the Dales. They existed in Arlathan, as a part of Arlathan. A herd existed still, at Solas’s sanctuary in the mountains, and to have got there at all they would have had to be brought before the eluvians went down and isolated it.

 

And she knows halla down to her marrow. Knows them best, perhaps, of any creature on Thedas. She half-expected a suggestion based on that alone.

 

The voices hesitate, a taut silence in her mind that makes her itch.

 

 _You will be angry,_ one quiet voice whispers, echoing her words back to her, _when you know what Ghilan’nain did._

 

Ghilan’nain was inducted into the pantheon as the mother of the halla. This is not a shape that they suggested, one to put on like pretty clothing or a suit of mail.

 

So the shape itself must have been something Ghilan’nain did. Something she did to the People. A cruelty, not a kindness. A cage.

 

The world smears, and she is vaguely aware of her legs folding up underneath her and the jarring impact of her weight on mismatched hands.

 

One of the voices confirms it;

 

_They could not turn back. We could not turn them back. She bound the spirit to the flesh, changed the spirit to suit the flesh, and then they could be nothing else._

 

Except dead. They were people, but they could not be. Could never be again.

 

And this horror is what made Ghilan’nain a god. Her stomach curdles.

 

She always loved halla. If someone turned her cousin into one, though, she would find that person and rip out their still-beating heart.

 

This is why, she thinks. This is why there was a herd at Solas’s remote sanctuary; Solas couldn’t free them by removing their vallaslin, but he could take them away from the one who hurt them. He could let them be somewhere safe. This is why her people consider halla friends and allies, _family_ , and why they must choose to help, not be pushed into it like beasts of burden.

 

No one remembered why, but everyone knew it was important. That survived the empire’s fall, and the erasure of their history through generations of subjugation and genocide.

 

She is so angry her eyes burn and a scream smolders in her throat, unvoiced. She wishes she could breathe out this rage and pain as fire, even though that is not a magic that has ever come easily to her call, because it would hurt less than swallowing down her fury.

 

… but there’s a thought.

 

The Old Gods looked like dragons. Looked like - but weren’t, can’t have been. High Dragons are never male. Razikale was one of the People.

 

_His crime is high treason. He took on a form reserved for the gods and their chosen, and dared to fly in the shape of the divine._

 

There’s immediate resistance from the voices of the Well even as the idea forms.

 

 _You are_ not _chosen_ , a deep voice insists. That’s true; she was not chosen. She chose. She didn’t desecrate the temple or kill its guardians, but whatever Solas said, she isn’t truly Mythal’s creature. She bargained for entrance into the sanctum and then she made a trade.

 

But chosen or not, Justice has given her leave, and justice needs to be done. Someday soon, she is going to fight gods. And things that are bigger than gods. Professor Frederic’s research says that _this_ shape might enable her to survive while she finds out _how_ to fight what’s poisoning the world.

 

It would put her on even footing with the Evanuris. It would make her resistant to the Blight. It would be terribly, terribly useful in the struggles ahead - and it would give her wings.

 

She’s always liked high places. She’s always envied birds on the wing.

 

Arlathan’s laws forbid it, but Arlathan is ashes.

 

So:

 

She leans into the words, puts weight and power and command into them.

 

“Teach me how to be a dragon.”

 

Razikale was right; the Well is no longer a monolithic mass, a single united will. Because when she says it, there is a tumultuous chorus of negations, refusals - and beneath that three increasingly distinct, increasingly familiar voices quietly, gleefully affirm, **_yes_ **.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably where I admit that like 30% of my reason for writing this fic in the first place is that I wanted her to be a dragon. The rest is that I have TOO MANY META IDEAS.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


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